Oh Dear.

Nothing emerged from your chest except a rasp so raw, so thoroughly broken, that it barely sounded human. Your throat felt as though it had been lined with crushed glass, the simple act of trying to form a name sending a white-hot spike of agony straight up into your jaw.

"Easy."

One gloved hand remained steady against your shoulder, pinning you gently but securely to the mattress, while his other hand reached down toward the medical pouch clipped to his utility belt.

"Don't force it."

But your breathing wouldn't slow. It couldn't. Your chest was heaving in shallow, desperate hitches, your entire nervous system still screaming, still fully expecting another pair of hands to materialize out of the darkness and finish the job.

"C—"

You tried again, a stubborn, panicked urge overriding the pain. It was a mistake. A blinding ache sliced through your throat, cutting off the syllable before it could even clear your lips.

Cody had already produced a small, compact medical scanner from his kit. The cold, sterile metal brushed lightly beneath your jaw, the contact making you flinch instinctively before you recognized the familiar shape of Republic tech.

The Commander frowned behind his visor.

"Shhh..." he repeated, his modulated voice dropping an octave, softer this time. "I'm just checking your airway. Stay still for me."

The scanner emitted a series of quiet, rapid tones. They weren't good ones. The pitch was too high, the intervals too erratic—the telltale sign of severe soft-tissue trauma and swelling.

Cody's shoulders stiffened almost imperceptibly.

You saw it anyway. You had spent too long around the 212th not to recognize the exact moment a clone shifted from precautionary mode into active combat assessment.

"Sir."

A trooper hurried into the room from the terrace, his blaster raised, his armor silhouetted against the dim embers of the fireplace.

"Three fled. One unconscious."

Cody didn't look up from your neck. "Balcony?"

"They jumped straight onto the lower levels. They're moving through the palace."

"Follow them, make sure your blasters are set to stun, we need them alive."

Before the trooper could even reply, another clone appeared in the main doorway of your quarters. He was breathing hard, his chest armor rising and falling rapidly as he gripped the frame of the sliding door.

"Commander."

Cody stood up, stepping between you and the doorway in a single, fluid motion that effectively shielded you from view. "Report."

"There are casualties, sir."

The room became very still. The frantic, ambient noise of the palace outside seemed to drop away, leaving nothing but the heavy, suffocating weight of an impending truth.

"How many?" Cody demanded.

"The local guards posted outside the northern wing…" The trooper hesitated, a rare, telling break in a clone's discipline. "…they're dead, sir. Throats cut. Clean."

Silence.

Your blood turned completely to ice beneath your skin. The soft, expensive robes you wore felt suddenly like a shroud.

"They were already inside the palace."

The words settled over the room like a heavy, poisonous fog.

Already inside.

You stared blankly at the dark canopy above your bed, your mind spinning so fast the room practically tilted. Inside.

Someone had let them in.

Someone with an access code, a key, an official title. Someone had walked those hooded figures through these very corridors, past the tapestries and the stone statues of founders, while the rest of the palace slept.

"Lock down every corridor. No one moves alone."

His voice remained entirely calm. Steady. Professional. It was exactly what you needed to hear—the voice of authority, the promise of safety. And yet, it was the exact thing that made the terror feel even more real. Because Cody wasn't panicking. He was adapting to a hostile environment. Which meant this was a war zone now. This was worse than a random security breach.

Your breathing hitched again, a tiny, fractured sound.

"General…"

The word escaped almost without your permission, a desperate, bleeding thought given form. It was barely audible, a ghost of a sound floating through the room.

Cody looked down immediately.

Your fingers, trembling violently and slick with cold sweat, grabbed the edge of his white plastoid vambrace. You held on with everything you had left, your nails scraping against the painted metal.

"General…"

Your eyes searched the room frantically, darting from the shattered balcony doors to the dark corners near the wardrobe, to the entryway where clones stood with rifles raised. Every doorway. Every shadow. Every face that wasn't his.

"Cody, the General, he-"

You coughed.

"Hey, slow down, he is handling the situation, he went after the attackers. He'll be fine, he's a Jedi." he hoisted you up with one single move, allowing you to lean on him.

You refused to look where the attacker’s stunned, heavy body lay slumped against the floor. But as Cody guided you toward the door, your eyes drifted anyway.

The hood had fallen back slightly. In the pale glow-rod light, you caught a glimpse of gray, mottled skin, the sickeningly familiar dark uniform of the local palace staff, and those terrifying, glassy, red-rimmed eyes staring blankly at the ceiling.

"Keep moving," he muttered, his voice dropping into that low, tactical growl he used when a perimeter was failing. "Eyes on me. Keep your eyes on me."

The mechanical doors of your quarters were stuck halfway open, forced apart by a clone’s heavy shoulder. Cody led you through the gap, stepping out into the cavernous, vaulted corridor of the eastern wing.

And then the smell hit you.

Heavy, hot, and unmistakable.

Just a few paces ahead, the geometric patterns of the dark crimson carpet suddenly looked darker, wet and gleaming under the flashing lights. Two figures lay tangled near the base of an ornate stone statue, their local guard uniforms torn, their positions unnaturally still.

Your stride faltered. Your breath caught in a sharp, agonizing squeak against your bruised throat.

"Don't look."

Cody’s hand immediately shifted, rising to press flat against the side of your face, gently but forcefully tilting your head away from the bodies and toward his own armored shoulder.

"Look at the plating," he ordered, his modulated voice a steady, rhythmic barrier against the horror of the hallway. "Count the scuffs if you have to. Do not look down."

You squeezed your eyes shut, letting him guide you blindly past the carnage.

The guards had been alive when you went to sleep. They had been standing watch, a supposed symbol of the Governor's hospitality. Now they were just obstacles to navigate in the dark.

"Nivay, is the path to the western sector clear?" Cody barked into his internal comm-link, his chest armor vibrating slightly against your arm.

A burst of static answered him, followed by a clone’s clipped voice.

"Negative, Commander. We’ve got local security forces panicking near the central rotunda. They’re locking down the blast doors. We're getting cut off."

"Kriffing hell," he cursed sharply, his pace quickening, forcing you into a breathless, limping jog beside him. "Mesh'la I need to help them, but first I'm gonna get you somewhere safe okay? Don't speak just nod your head."

You did, Barely but enough for him to know that you heard him. You clung to him like a lifeline, the cold, hard plastoid of his armor the only thing convincing you that you hadn't already died in that bed.

Cody stopped abruptly in front of a heavy, unmarked door set deep into the stone paneling. He released your wrist, though the sudden absence of his grip made you sway on your feet.

"Stay put," he commanded in a low, absolute whisper. "Do not move from this wall."

Before you could even manage a nod, Cody stepped into the dark room, his blaster raised.

Inside the room, there was the sharp, sweeping click of a tactical light, the brief rustle of fabric, and the silent, terrifying seconds ticking by.

Then, his voice cut through the dark.

"Doc', come on."

You stumbled through the threshold, blinking hard as a harsh, warm light suddenly flooded the space. It was a smaller chamber but compared to the nightmare in the hallway, it felt like a sanctuary. The door slid shut behind you with a heavy, pressurized seal, cutting off the distant, frantic shouting of the palace.

Before you could take another breath, Cody was there. He had already shed his helmet, setting it hastily on a nearby desk. His dark eyes were wide, wired with raw combat adrenaline, but the moment he looked at you, the hard edge of the Commander completely fractured.

He reached out, taking your face in his large, gloved hands. The material of his gloves was rough against your skin, but his touch was incredibly gentle, framing your jaw as he forced you to look up at him.

"Listen to me," he said, his voice dropping into a fierce, intense whisper. "I need you to be reaally brave for me, okay? You stay inside this room. You lock this door from the inside the second I step out. Do not open it for anyone. I don't care if they have a local badge, I don't care if they're screaming for help. You don't let anyone in unless it's me, or the General. Do you understand?"

You tried to answer, but a violent shiver tore through your entire body. Your jaw was trembling so hard your teeth clicked together. And then, the tears spilled over.

Hot, heavy, and humiliating, they tracked rapidly down your cheeks, smearing the dust and dried sweat on your skin. You hated it. You absolutely loathed crying in front of anyone—especially a Commander of the Grand Army, especially someone who needed you to be a competent, unshakeable medic. You tried to swallow the sob, your hand flying up to cover your trembling mouth, your shoulders hunching as you tried to turn away from him.

Cody completely melted.

A soft, pained exhale escaped him, and the fierce grip on your jaw softened into a tender, calloused caress.

"Hey… hey, look at me," he murmured, his voice cracking with a sudden, deep warmth. "You're going to be okay, sunshine. I promise."

Before the sting of embarrassment could fully settle into your chest, Cody stepped forward, closing the remaining distance between you, and pulled you entirely into his chest.

It wasn't a brief, polite, casual hug. It wasn't the cautious embrace of a soldier unsure of his boundaries. He wrapped his strong, heavily armored arms completely around your waist and shoulders, hauling your shaking frame flush against the solid, comforting bulk of his chest plate. He held you tight enough to physically anchor you, absorbing the tremors racking your body and letting you bury your face completely into the crook of his neck, right where the soft, ribbed black undersuit met the hard collarpiece of his armor.

Then, with a gentle, lingering squeeze that felt like an unspoken reassurance, he slowly pulled back. He reached down and grabbed his helmet from the desk, his expression hardening back into that of the Commander as he slid the bucket over his head. There was that familiar, sharp, predatory click of the atmospheric seals locking into place, and the faceless, unyielding T-shaped visor of Commander Cody returned. "Lock it behind me," his modulated voice ordered, the electronic vocalizer carrying a sharp, protective edge.

The heavy door slid shut between you, sealing with a final, echoing snap. A second later, the electronic lock engaged with a distinct, heavy click from the inside panel, leaving you alone.

*****

Obi-Wan strode through the grand archway of the western wing, his boots leaving dark, wet tracks across the pristine marble. He was entirely stripped of his usual diplomatic grace.

A long, jagged laceration stretched across his forearm—the parting gift of a vibroblade he had missed by a fraction of an inch in the dark. Dark, sluggish blood dripped from his fingertips, splattering quietly onto the floor with every step he took.

He didn’t feel the pain. He felt only a cold, mounting frustration that bordered dangerously on anger.

The palace was alive with a frantic, chaotic energy. The 212th Attack Battalion had completely subsumed the local security forces, their white-and-gold armor creating a stark, militaristic contrast against the decadent architecture. Flashing tactical lights cut through the shadows of the high, vaulted corridors. Clones moved in tight, synchronized fireteams, clearing alcoves, securing stairwells, and establishing a brutal, unyielding grid over the entire estate.

Local officials were running on pure, unadulterated adrenaline. In the central rotunda, the Governor was currently surrounded by a frantic flock of aides, his face pale and his brittle confidence entirely shattered, while Senatorial guards huddled around the Republic representatives to prepare a rapid evacuation protocol.

He cut through the crowd of panicking politicians, ignoring the local security chief who tried to flag him down for a report. His focus was locked entirely on a single figure standing near the junction of the eastern corridor.

Commander Cody stood with his helmet tucked under his arm, barking a series of rapid-fire deployment orders to Waxer and a small detachment of troopers.

The moment Obi-Wan approached, Cody broke off his briefing, his dark eyes instantly locking onto the bloody tear in his General’s sleeve.

"General," Cody said, his voice dropping into a low, private register as the troopers dispersed. "You’re bleeding, sir."

"A minor scratch, Commander," Obi-Wan replied, his tone clipped, though he forced his shoulders to ease by a fraction. He pulled his torn sleeve down slightly, a futile attempt to cover the wound, though the blood was already soaking into the fabric. "The attackers in the lower gardens managed to evade capture. They are exceptionally well-trained, Cody. And entirely unbothered by the concept of self-preservation."

"We noticed the same thing up here, sir," Cody said grimly, stepping closer to ensure their conversation wasn't overheard by the hovering aides nearby. "We managed to secure one alive, but he’s currently unconcious. Our men are working on the palace staff roster now. The ones who hit the eastern wing didn't infiltrate—they had tier-one access keys."

He looked at Cody, his expression smoothing into something entirely calm, entirely measured. But his voice, when he finally spoke, carried a quiet, dangerous weight.

"And the medic, Commander?" Obi-Wan asked. "I am aware her quarters were targeted."

Cody didn't blink. He knew his General too well; he knew the exact texture of Obi-Wan’s calm, and he knew how much effort it took to maintain it when the stakes became personal.

"She’s alive, sir," Cody answered quietly, his gaze steady. "She was asking for you, General,"

Obi-Wan closed his eyes for a single, brief second. The relief that washed through him was so sudden, so immense, that it felt like a physical impact against his ribs.

He had to draw a slow, deliberate breath through his nose to keep his composure from visibly fracturing.

"Where is she now?" the Jedi murmured, opening his eyes.

"I put her at the end of the east wing. Locked it from the inside. I told her not to open it for anyone except me. Or you."

The clone paused, his eyes dropping briefly to Obi-Wan’s hand, where the blood was still slow-dripping onto the marble floor.

Through the heavy, static-choked atmosphere of the palace, he reached out into the Force.

He found you instantly.

Your presence was a faint, trembling spark in the dark, still radiating the jagged, erratic frequencies of shock and lingering terror. But beneath the panic, there was a quiet, irresistible pull that tugged directly at the center of his chest. It was a profound, almost magnetic resonance, a song written in a language only two people in the galaxy could understand.

"General," Cody said, his voice dropping into a low, fiercely private register that effectively cut through Obi-Wan’s spiraling thoughts. "You should tell her."

The Commander of 212th knew him too well. He didn't need to see the burning mark hidden beneath his sleeve to know who you were to him.

For over three decades, Obi-Wan Kenobi had been the model Jedi. He had sacrificed his desires, his grief, and his own heart on the altar of the Jedi Order. He knew the code by heart; he lived by it. Attachment was forbidden. Possession was a path to the dark side.

Yet the universe, with a cruelty that felt entirely personal, had handed him a soulmate in the middle of a galactic war.

It wasn't just a matter of breaking the rules. In the ancient, forgotten lore of the galaxy, a soulmark wasn't a romantic luxury—it was a biological and spiritual tether. Two halves of a singular whole. If one perished, the other’s spirit would slowly wither, a profound psychological decay that the mind rarely survived.

Kenobi let out a short, ragged breath that was too heavy to be a sigh. He smoothed his hand down his beard, his fingers coming away wet with the blood from his own arm.

"She has been through enough. She was nearly choked to death in her own bed less than an hour ago. I don't wish to burden her more."

"General, it's getting out of hand," Cody countered, stepping directly into Obi-Wan’s line of sight, refusing to let the Jedi retreat into his usual diplomatic deflection. "Sooner or later, you know she’s going to realize. If those assassins had been two seconds faster tonight…"

"Don't." he interrupted him, not letting that horrible vision sink in his head.

"I will wait until the situation calms down," Obi-Wan said finally. His voice was a quiet, unyielding whisper, the tone he used when a tactical decision was absolute and beyond negotiation. "Until then, I will make sure she survives this mission. That is all that matters. Everything else can wait."

Cody didn't argue.

"Understood, General. I'll keep the perimeter tight out here."

"Thank you, old friend," Obi-Wan murmured.

He turned away before the silence could stretch any further, his heavy boots carrying him down the dim, gold-and-crimson length of the eastern wing.

******

You stood exactly where the Commander had left you, your back pressed so hard against the far wall that the rigid stone molding dug through the fabric of your borrowed robes, biting into your shoulder blades. You didn't move. You barely even dared to shift your weight, terrified that the simple friction of your bare feet against the floor would drown out the sounds you were desperately straining to hear through the thick, pressurized seal of the door.

Thewarm light of the staging room beat down on you, entirely too bright, entirely too revealing. It felt violent after the deep, terrifying shadows of your bedroom. It forced you to look at your own hands—trembling so violently that your fingers looked blurred, the nails bitten down, skin slick with a cold, greasy sweat that made you feel utterly filthy.

Every time you closed your eyes, the room tilted. The image of those bloodshot, inhumanly furious eyes staring down at you through the hood flashed behind your eyelids, accompanied by the phantom, crushing weight of an iron grip squeezing the absolute life out of your throat. Your hand flew up instinctively, your fingertips hovering just above the tender skin of your neck. It was already swelling. You could feel the heat radiating from the welts, the skin tight and agonizingly sensitive to even the slightest movement of your jaw.

You looked around the room, your eyes darting from the heavy wooden desk to the locked cabinets, suddenly terrified that someone was hiding behind the thick, dust-laden drapes.

Slowly, your knees gave out entirely.

You slid down the wall until you were sitting on the hard floor, pulling your knees tightly against your chest. You wrapped your arms around your legs, burying your face in your knees because the light in the room was suddenly too much, too bright, making your head throb with a vicious, sickening pulse.

And then there was your wrist.

It wasn't painful, not like your throat, but it was loud. A deep, rhythmic resonance that seemed to vibrate in perfect sync with the frantic hammering of your heart.

You pulled back your sleeve with trembling fingers, staring down at the glowing lines in the warm light of the room. It was fading now, slowing down into a low, steady simmer, but the implication made your stomach twist into a tight, anxious knot.

Cody said he was fine, you reminded yourself. He said he was dismantling whatever had tried to infiltrate his quarters, but Cody didn't have a soulmark tying his life force to the General’s. You did.

You hated yourself for the tears that were still silently leaking down your face. You wiped them away aggressively with the back of your sleeve, the friction stinging your raw skin. You were a field medic, for kriff’s sake. You had watched men lose limbs on the dirty metal floors of dropships. You had held pressure on arterial spurts while mortar fire rattled the dust down from triage tents. You were supposed to be the solid ground. The unshakeable variable

Now, stripped of your uniform and hunted in the dark like an inconvenient piece of evidence, you felt entirely reduced.

Small. Pathetic.

Every click of the building’s internal climate control made your spine lock. You were running on pure, unadulterated exhaustion, your mind spinning so fast that the edges of your vision were beginning to blur into a dark, heavy grey.

Then came the knock.

''Do not open this door for anyone, unless it's me or the General.''

You bolted upright, your back slamming against the cabinet behind you, your breath catching in your throat with a painful, suffocating snap. Your heart detonated against your ribs, a wild, frantic rhythm that made your ears pop. You couldn't move. You couldn't breathe. Your eyes locked onto the metallic seam of the sliding door, your entire body tensing as you waited for the audio-panel to chime.

"It's me," the electronic speaker murmured, the low, familiar cadence perfectly clear despite the mechanical distortion. "It's Obi-Wan. Open the door, dear."

But you don’t run to the panel.

Your hand hovers a few inches away from the security override, your fingers trembling so violently you can barely align them with the sensor.

You want to believe it’s him.

Every molecule of your being is screaming at you to hit the button, to sink into the safety his presence always promises. But the raw terror of the last hour has carved a deep, defensive trench into your mind.

You hesitate, your lips parting as you lean slightly closer to the audio-comm panel on the wall.

"General?" it hurt to use the title.

"Yes, dear?"

"Tell me… tell me something only you would know."

You felt absolutely awful the moment the sentence left your lips. It felt like an insult. A stain on the unshakeable respect you held for him, a direct challenge to the man who had just hours ago ignited his lightsaber and placed his own body between you and a Sith Lord without a single millisecond of hesitation.

But trust was a luxury Gavos Minor had just brutally stripped away from you. If the palace staff had tier-one access keys, if they could mimic uniforms, they could easily be standing on the other side of that door with a stolen comm-link, waiting for you to blindly walk into another trap.

To your utter shock, he was quick to answer:

"When you are exceptionally stressed during a triage shift, you organize the medical supplies alphabetically by manufacturer. And…you have a peculiar habit of chewing on the inside of your left cheek whenever you are present during the mission briefs."

You blink hard against the fresh tears blurring your vision.

The sheer ridiculousness of it hits you all at once. He has been observing you. Not just your medical reports, not just your efficiency logs, but the tiny, completely absurd habits you thought nobody in the entire GAR would ever have the time or the interest to notice. Especially not a Jedi.

Your hand drops to the sensor panel, your thumb pressing firmly against the override mechanism before your brain can even formulate an apology.

The mechanical lock disengages with a heavy, pressurized hiss, and the door slides open.

And then, there is only the two of you.

Your eyes sweep over him, your medical training instantly overriding your shock. Obi-Wan is entirely stripped of his usual diplomatic armor. His heavy outer robes are gone, and his primary tunic is violently torn at the shoulder, the linen shredded down to the fabric of his undershirt.

But it’s his forearm that makes your breath hitch painfully in your throat.

A long, jagged laceration stretches across the skin, a deep, angry crimson line that is still sluggishly weeping dark blood down into his palm and off the tips of his fingers. It has already stained the fabric of his sleeve, a stark, brutal contrast against the pale linen.

You don’t say a single word. Your voice has entirely vanished into the raw ache of your throat anyway. You just stand there, frozen, staring fixedly at the dark, wet crimson tracking down his arm, your eyes wide with a sudden, sharp panic that has nothing to do with the assassins in the dark.

Obi-Wan stands perfectly still under the weight of your silence. Slowly, he follows your desperate gaze down to his own arm, looking at the wound as if he’s only just now realizing it’s there.

"It's really nothing, dear," he says, his voice carrying that smooth, infuriatingly light lilt. He actually attempts a faint, reassuring smile, shifting his posture to slightly obscure the torn fabric from your view. "A clumsy parry on my part. The rain made the stone slick, you see. It looks far worse than it actually is, I assure you."

A spark of hot, volatile annoyance flares to life right beneath your ribs, instantly burning through the cold remnants of your terror.

You glare at him, your jaw tightening so hard the movement sends a vicious ache straight up your neck. You absolutely hate this about him.

You stomp past him before he can finish whatever reassuring lie is currently forming behind his neat beard. Your throat is screaming in protest, but the pure, unadulterated aggravation of dealing with a stubborn Jedi Master gives you the strength to force words through the ache.

"Move," you rasp, the syllable sounding like gravel grinding under a boot.

Obi-Wan doesn't move. He turns on his heel, keeping his hands tucked neatly into his remaining sleeve, his posture infuriatingly regal. "I assure you, I am perfectly capable of—"

"I said," you hack out, pointing a trembling, furious finger toward the small fresher attached to the staging room, "move your stubborn ass into the fresher, General. Before you bleed out on a carpet that probably costs more than a Republic gunship."

"Your concern is deeply touching," he replies smoothly, though he finally begins to walk, his lips twitching with the faintest hint of an amused smirk. "But I can assure you, the gunship is vastly more expensive."

"Shut up," you choke out, stalking past him to yank open the cabinets under the fresher sink.

You pull out the standard-issue palace first-aid kit—thankfully stocked, likely because the servants here were prepared for everything except their own treason. You flip the latches open with a vicious snap. Your eyes track across the contents: antiseptic, bacta patches, bandages, sterile water.

No gloves.

You dig through the compartments, your frustration mounting by the second. Nothing. Not a single pair of latex or synth-silk barriers.

"Looking for something?" Obi-Wan asks, leaning casually against the marble doorframe.

"Gloves," you whisper harshly, your voice cracking. "There are no gloves."

"Ah. A catastrophic administrative oversight," he murmurs, his tone entirely too light. "Perhaps we should summon the Governor's remaining staff to lodge a formal complaint."

"Don't joke," you snap, turning around to face him. Your hands are bare, scrubbed raw from the water earlier, but completely exposed. You grab a bottle of antiseptic and a stack of sterile gauze. "Sit on the edge of the tub. Now."

He sighs, a soft, yielding sound, and finally complies. He sits down, extending his bloody forearm toward you.

You step between his knees, your clinical instincts taking over the exact moment you approach a wound. You don't think about the fact that he's a Jedi. You don't think about the fact that he's your soulmate, or that the mark on your own wrist is humming like a live wire against your skin. You just see torn flesh that needs to be cleaned.

You pour the sterile water over the cut first, washing away the dark, dried crimson. Then, you gently press a piece of wet gauze against the edges of the skin to inspect the depth.

The moment your bare fingers brush against the unbroken skin of his wrist to steady his arm, Obi-Wan sharply inhales.

His entire arm flinches slightly, a sudden, involuntary reaction. You instantly freeze, your eyes snapping up to his face, terrified you’ve hurt him.

But he isn't grimacing. Instead, he’s looking down at your hands, his brows pulled together in a look of mild, incredibly sweet grievance.

"Good heavens," Obi-Wan murmurs, his voice dropping into a soft, private register that sends a completely different kind of shiver down your spine. "Your hands are absolutely freezing."

You blink at him, your irritation flaring right back up through the sudden warmth in your chest. "I was almost murdered in my sleep, General. Forgive me if my circulation isn't optimized for your personal comfort."

"I am merely making an medical observation," he replies, his eyes crinkling at the corners as he looks back up to meet your gaze. "A good medic should really maintain a more agreeable core temperature."

"A good patient," you shoot back, your voice a rough, quiet rasp as you deliberately press the cold, antiseptic-soaked gauze directly against the center of his cut, "would shut their mouth and let me do my job."

Obi-Wan winces slightly as the medicine bites into the wound, but his gaze doesn't leave yours. The tease vanishes from his expression, replaced by something quiet, intense, and entirely too heavy for the tiny room.

"Very well," he says softly. He doesn't pull his arm away from your freezing hands. Instead, his fingers twitch slightly against his knee, as if he’s fighting the urge to wrap his clean hand around yours just to warm them up. "Have it your way."

You keep your eyes glued to your work, focusing entirely on the precision of the neat, overlapping layers of fabric. It’s a deflection tactic, and you both know it. Because the moment the noise stops, the space between you shrinks, growing dense and thick with a heavy, magnetic pull that makes the air feel hard to breathe.

Obi-Wan doesn't flinch anymore. He sits perfectly still on the edge of the tub, his broad shoulders slightly hunched to match your height, his breath coming in slow, even measurements that fan softly over your bare collarbone.

You pull the end of the bandage taut, tucking it securely into the fold with a finality that means your job is done. Your bare hands linger for a fraction of a second against his skin, the contrast striking—your freezing fingers resting against the radiant, steady heat of his arm. Your soulmark is throbbing now, a phantom heartbeat beneath your sleeve that seems to lock directly into the rhythm of his pulse.

You start to step back, to break the contact and regain your professional distance, but you don't make it an inch.

Obi-Wan’s clean hand moves. It rises between you, slow and deliberate, giving you every opportunity to pull away. When you don't, his knuckles gently brush the underside of your jawline. The heat of his skin is a sudden, intoxicating shock against your freezing flesh. His thumb catches the edge of your chin, his touch impossibly tender, tilting your head upward just enough to force your eyes away from his shoulder and directly into his.

"Does it hurt?" he asks softly.

The question is absurd. Of course it hurts.

But the way he asks it makes the physical pain vanish beneath a sudden, agonizing wave of tension.

"It's fine," you whisper, your eyes darting down to the collar of his tunic to avoid the intense, searching look in his eyes. "It’ll... it’ll heal in a couple of days. I’ll just have to get used to covering my neck for a bit."

You try to take a step back, expecting him to take the hint, to return to the safe, comfortable boundary of General and medic.

He doesn't let go.

Instead, Obi-Wan’s thumb slides from your chin, tracking a slow, warm line down the side of your jaw before his hand drops to find yours. He catches your trembling, freezing fingers in both of his broad hands. He folds them completely within his own palms, his skin radiating that steady, comforting heat you always seem to crave, actively working to rub the chill out of your knuckles.

You stand entirely frozen between his knees. You are so incredibly tired—physically battered, emotionally drained, and running on the absolute fumes of a massive adrenaline crash. You just stand there, your hands trapped in his, waiting for him to say something, to explain away this sudden, overwhelming closeness, or to give you an order. Anything to break the agonizing tension.

"I'm sorry," Obi-Wan says softly, his voice dropping into a register so thick with genuine, heavy emotion it makes your chest ache. "I'm sorry I wasn't there to protect you."

A faint, tired shadow of a smile touches your lips, though it doesn't reach your eyes. "Don't be," you whisper, nodding slightly toward the neat white bandage you just finished wrapping around his forearm. "You've been pretty occupied yourself."

You stare down at the contrast of his hands over yours, trying your absolute hardest not to think about the sheer, dizzying wave of relief his touch is currently bringing you. It is the inescapable trait of carrying a soulmate bond—the silent, ancient reality that anything he does, every breath he draws near you, every slight pressure of his fingers, brings you an unshakeable sense of peace. You are biologically, spiritually wired to find home in him.

With a sharp, deliberate intake of breath that scrapes cruelly against your bruised throat, you pull your hands out of his warmth.

You take two large steps backward, out of the small fresher and into the main staging room, deliberately placing the boundary of physical distance between you. You smooth down the front of your borrowed robes, forcing your shoulders to square, desperately trying to call upon the professional armor of a GAR medic.

You turn your back to him, reaching for the counter, but you don't even manage to touch the latches before his voice stops you.

"Stop running away from me."

The sheer vulnerability in his tone anchors your feet to the floor.

Before you can turn around, Obi-Wan is there. His broad palms find your arms, his palms warm and heavy even through the fabric of your robes. He doesn't hold you still; instead, his hands roam slowly up your arms, over the tense curve of your shoulders, a gentle, tactile reassurance that tracks every shuddering breath you take, before finally sliding down to settle firmly against the dip of your hips.

The heat of his palms anchors you right against him, your back inches from his chest.

Your breath hitches, your heart detonating against your ribs all over again. "General... what are you doing?" you whisper, your voice a fragile, broken thing.

"I want you close to me," he murmurs. His breath is warm against the crown of your head, his voice dropping into a rough, intimate register that completely bypasses the Jedi Master and speaks directly to the aching, hollow space in your chest.

"That's... that's not a good idea," you whisper back, the words tasting like a lie even as you form them.

"Why not?"

The question is quiet, almost pleading.

You force yourself to turn around within his hold.

You don't know if he knows. You don't know if he can feel the phantom cadence of the bond pulsing beneath his sleeve just like you can, or if he's simply running on the same raw, unadulterated survival adrenaline that you are. Is he playing a dangerous game, unaware of the cosmic weight pulling at the edges of your sanity? Or is he entirely oblivious to the mark you carry?

"We can't be this close," you try to argue, your voice dropping into an anxious, frantic whisper as your palms press harder against his chest plate. "If someone walks in or overrides the panel..."

"Forget about them," Obi-Wan cuts in. His tone isn't the gentle, yielding murmur from before; it carries a sudden, fierce gravity that commands absolute authority. His fingers tighten slightly, anchoring you. "Forget about them, and look at me."

The order hits you like a physical force. You obey instantly, your head tilting back, your gaze locking directly into his.

"I was kept in the dark my whole life," Obi-Wan confesses, his voice a low, rough vibration that seems to echo right through your chest. His gaze roams over your face, tracking the tears, the exhaustion, and the dark bruising on your neck with a desperate, heavy reverence. "Taught to look past the individual. Taught that the universe operates on grand designs, and that our hearts are merely an obstacle to duty. But the first time I saw you... I thought the sun itself rose in your eyes."

A sharp, dizzying wave of heat rushes from your left wrist straight up your arm, flooding your chest until you feel entirely breathless.

"You are so beautiful," he murmurs, his thumbs brushing the fabric over your hips, his voice cracking with a vulnerability that terrifies you. "And so incredibly strong without even realizing it. I have spent months trying to convince myself of what a Jedi should be, but tonight... tonight, I find myself entirely unable to resist the urge to tell you how much I care for you."

"You know?"

A faint, bittersweet smile touches the corners of his mouth, the lines around his eyes deepening with an ancient, profound warmth.

"I always knew it was you," he confesses, his voice dropping into a low, rumbling whisper that vibrates directly through your palms and into your chest. "It took me a while to get used to the truth," he murmurs, his thumb brushing gently against your fabric. "The truth that no matter how hard I can try, nothing will pry you off my mind. I can’t do anything but think about you."

You lean into him, the hard edge of his chest armor no longer a barrier but a sanctuary. Your forehead drops forward to rest against his shoulder.

"I was so scared," you choke out, the words tearing past your bruised windpipe in a raw, fractured rush. You tighten your grip on his torn sleeve, your knuckles turning white. "I was so terrified you’d be disappointed to find out it was me. I’m- I'm nobody compared to you. You’re a Jedi Master, a hero of the Republic, and I’m just... I’m just a medic. I thought... I thought you’d look at me and wish the universe had given you someone better. Someone who could actually stand beside you."

The confession pours out of you like an opened artery, the insecurity you'd buried for months finally bleeding into the open.

"And tonight—" your voice cracks violently, a sob hitching in your chest as the phantom sensation of that iron grip flashes across your throat. "When they grabbed me... when they pinned me down against the bed... all I could think about was that I was going to die right there. I was going to die in that room without ever telling you how much you mean to me."

His hands shift instantly, sliding up from your waist to cup your face. His broad, warm palms cradle your cheeks, his thumbs gently sweeping away the hot tears spilling down your skin.

"I'm so sorry. Please don't hate me for this..."

"I could never hate you," he says, each word deliberate, heavy, and absolute. "Never. Do you hear me?"

This is the moment where the universe narrows to a point.

This is the moment where Obi-Wan Kenobi stops being a legend. He is not the Negotiator here. He is not the High General of the 212th, nor the master of Soresu, nor the flawless paragon of Jedi discipline. He is a man, holding the one person he cares about the most.

This is the moment where the war stops.

This is the moment where the grand architecture of the Republic, the trembling politics of a thousand dying worlds, and the crushing weight of the Jedi Code simply dissolve into the background radiation of a locked room. For months, you have carried a ghost beneath your sleeve, believing yourself an inconvenient variable in the grand, sweeping tragedy of Obi-Wan Kenobi’s life. You have looked at him across dirty triage tents, through the smoke of burning gunships, and seen a myth made of light and duty. You thought yourself a nobody because the galaxy measures value in armies and stars, and you are only a person with blood on your apron and frost in your fingers.

But a soulmark is not a tactical deployment. It is not an entry in the archives. It is a fundamental law of the cosmos, as absolute as gravity, and right now, gravity is pulling him down into the atmosphere of you.

"Oh, maker..." you sigh to yourself, your head dropping against his chest plate with a dull thunk. "No, this is so weird."

Obi-Wan doesn't pull away. If anything, the corners of his eyes crinkle, "Good weird or bad weird?"

"We just made peace with the fact we're soulmates," you say, your voice rising in a frantic, pitchy spiral. "completely ignoring the fact you're my commanding officer and I'm your subordinate, and—"

"Darling."

"—not to mention I could be fricking court-martialled for this—"

"Darling."

"—for even touching you in an inappropriate way! I'm not saying that I don't like how close we are, I do. But high command would not share my opinion. In fact, they would put me into jail and expel you! And we would never see each other again and I would grow old and alone with ten loth-cats and..."

"I'm going to kiss you," he says, just casually interrupting your spiral of thoughts. "If that's alright."

The words hang in the air, a sudden, devastating circuit breaker to your nervous system. You freeze mid-sentence, your mouth slightly open, staring at him entirely blankly. You let out a small, pathetic little sniffle.

If that's alright.

Your brain completely short-circuits. IF THAT'S ALRIGHT???

"Yes, please.."

He doesn't waste another second.

The moment his mouth presses against yours, a low, ragged sound escapes the back of his throat, his grip tightening on your hips as he pulls you flush against him. His lips are warm, soft, but parted with a desperate, heavy hunger that tells you exactly how long he has been starving for this.

He groans softly into your mouth, a low, desperate sound that shatters the last of his legendary Jedi composure. His lips part yours with a fierce, possessive hunger, tasting you fully, as if he's trying to erase the very memory of the hands that had been around your throat just an hour before.

You let out a broken murmur, your fingers tangling desperately into the copper hair at the nape of his neck, pulling him down, anchoring yourself to the solid, unyielding heat of him. The phantom gold of the soulmark beneath your sleeve isn't just humming anymore; it’s a roaring current, a wildfire that makes your skin flush and your blood sing. Every touch of his lips sends a jolt of pure, intoxicating electricity straight to your core, leaving you dizzy, breathless, and utterly defenseless.

His hands roam lower, the heavy grip returning to your hips to lift you slightly, pressing you flush against the hard line of his thighs. You slide your leg between his instinctively, seeking closer contact, your bare toes curling against the cool floor as a hot, liquid ache pools deep in your belly. Obi-Wan breaks the kiss for a fraction of a second, his breath hitching sharply against your lips, before he buries his face in the crook of your neck.

His beard scratches pleasantly against your jaw as his lips find the unbruised skin just beneath your ear, leaving a trail of searing, open-mouthed kisses down the column of your throat. A breathless gasp tears from your lips, your head tilting back against his arm to give him better access.

"Obi-Wan," you whimper, your hands sliding down to clutch at the torn fabric of his tunic, your knuckles white as the sheer intensity of the sensation threatens to buckle your knees entirely.

"I have you," he growls softly against your skin, his hands sliding underneath the hem of your borrowed robe, his bare, warm palms making direct, scorching contact with the bare skin of your thighs. The contrast of his calloused fingers against your skin makes you shiver violently, your hips instinctively arching into his touch. "I have you, darling. You're safe."

He hoists you up, and the sheer, effortless strength of it takes the last of your breath. Your legs lock around his waist, anchoring you to the hard plastoid of his armor and the even harder reality of his chest. He carries you out of the fresher, away from the clinical light and the dripping faucet, backing you into the deep, velvet shadows of the room.

*******