Creek.

The feeling of cold was not just in your exposed skin, but seeping through your very flesh, the ache of it reaching your bones and your lungs. The warmth of the fire in the corner called you, but you knew it would have no chance at drying through to the woollen garments which were uncomfortable and heavy on your skin.

“Please!” Jaskier answered from behind you.

You knew you were in no position to bargain, bracing yourself to be fleeced on account of your desperate situation, but the innkeeper simply nodded. He fortunately offered you a reasonable rate which would not completely empty your purses of coin.

As Jaskier trudged forwards to pay, your brain finally caught up.

“Three! Three rooms if you have them, sir. Our friend is outside.”

The bard hummed a noise of realisation, no doubt struggling to think himself as the wind continued to howl and the pair of you grew closer to freezing by the second.

The innkeeper grimaced.

“We only have two left, apologies,” he tilted his head sympathetically, “storm’s brought everyone in. No-one wants to travel in this.”

“Have you got an extra bed for either of them?” Jaskier was speaking quickly, brushing off the concern as he counted coin onto the table in front of him.

You couldn’t blame him for his dismissiveness, he was no doubt keen to get warmed up and dry his beloved lute. You were desperate to know if the fires were already lit.

The banging of the door behind you and the widening of the innkeeper’s eyes told you Geralt had finally caught up – standing by the entryway to avoid any more damage to the wooden floorboards.

The Witcher’s heavy breathing was even louder than the rain, and you tried to ignore his imposing form behind you as you followed Jaskier and the innkeeper’s discussion. The Bard was getting pissed off, you could hear it.

“You must have one extra bed somewhere in this establishment –”

“Sir I really don’t I’m sorry –”

“Are you kidding me? Have you seen the size of him? No one can share a bed with that!”

“Jaskier!”

You interrupted the bard, hearing Geralt’s footsteps approaching, turning back to the innkeeper.

“There’s nothing else?”

The coins sat between you on the countertop, where Jaskier had left them. You pushed them towards the man, encouraging him to take them.

“There really isn’t, ma’am. I’m sorry.”

“I understand, it’s not your fault. We’ll take the two rooms. And any extra blankets and pillows you have.”

He nodded, sparing another anxious glance first at Geralt, then at the shivering, grumpy Jaskier. He finally scooped up the coin, pushing two keys across to you, followed by a folded blanket from beneath the counter.

“Rooms five and six, they’re on your right as you head upstairs. I’ll bring up meals.”

He was speaking only to you, and you couldn’t blame him. The innkeeper made a swift departure back into his own room, leaving the three of you dripping wet in the office. You crossed to the fireplace, shedding your cloak onto a chair, and trying to warm your hands as you shivered.

A scraping made you wince as Geralt dragged a chair across the floor, setting it near the hearth. You took it graciously before he found a chair for himself, joining you wordlessly.

“You okay?” you muttered, noticing the blue hue to his hands, a slight clumsiness to the way his hands found one another and rested beneath his chin.

It was alarming, to see Geralt falling victim to anything as human as a mild hypothermia. You threw another log on the fire.

“Fine. Cold.”

You nodded, not at all surprised to get so little response from the Witcher. For a few moments more you both tried to warm up in front of the flames, listening to the new log crackling and to Jaskier’s footsteps as the storm raged on outside.

“Are you okay?” he murmured, wet leather creaking as he leant forwards.

“Fine, very cold,” you teased.

Geralt laughed, just one huff of air through his nose, but glanced back at your face with something approaching concern. You hummed, leaning forwards beside him, desperate for the warmth of the fire to seep into your very bones.

“I wasn’t expecting the storm to be that bad, sorry.”

“Not your fault.”

He shot you a knowing look, and you smiled through a full-body shiver. Despite his best efforts, Geralt took the whole world on his shoulders sometimes – the weather might be the only thing you could convince him wasn’t his responsibility.

“I should have gotten us to an inn sooner.”

“It’s fine. We’re all capable, Geralt. And none of us predicted this.”

Jaskier huffed behind you, indignant. He had predicted a little rain – though nothing of this scale. Still, he had whinged about being ‘proven right’ the whole journey to the inn. Jaskier approached, and you stood to offer him your chair.

“I’ll get the fires started in the rooms,” you offered, loathing to leave the warm office but desperate to rid yourself of your sodden clothes.

There was a tension in the room that you had no desire to deal with, too exhausted and too cold to watch your two favourite people on the whole Continent bickering all evening.

“I can go?” Geralt offered quickly, but you waved him away.

“All good. I’ll be quick.”

You snagged the blanket and both room keys, the room wordless behind you as you left it.

Upstairs was cold, dark. Torches had been blown out by the wind, the corridor draughtier than you would like, and you pulled the folded blanket closer to your chest.

You couldn’t help wondering what the room configuration would be. Yourself and Geralt would most certainly try to be self-less, offer up the least offensive solution. Jaskier would no doubt be fine with sharing a room, though you wondered if he would object to sharing with Geralt. The two men had been at odds lately, for reasons you couldn’t quite pin down.

The fire was blessedly built already in the first of the rooms you visited, making you sigh in relief as you sank to the floor. You lit the kindling, protecting the flame as wind forced its way through the room, your numb hands less sensitive to the heat as the fire grew larger and larger, finally catching the logs.

Voices floated up through the floor as you minded the fire, unmistakably your companions’. The words were dampened by the floorboards, but you frowned as the flames grew taller and independent, accompanied by harsher tones from downstairs.

You stripped off the wettest of your outer layers and left them by the fire in the first room, wrapping the blanket around yourself before locking up and switching to the adjacent room. As you repeated the process, this time replacing tumbled logs which had been knocked aside by the wind, the voices only grew louder and meaner. As the second fire became self-sustaining, you found yourself reluctant to move from it. Not only was the warmth tempting, finally restoring feeling to your chilled toes and fingers, but the idea of avoiding the full argument burning downstairs was deeply appealing.

Locking yourself in the room and going to sleep tempted you, a siren to your cold, exhausted body, but you begrudgingly stood, taking your blanket and locking the door – bracing yourself as you rushed through the cold corridor once again.

Stopping at the top of the stairs, you winced at the words being exchanged.

“I don’t know why you’re being such a bastard about this, Geralt! Share the bed, let me rest comfortably, and enjoy a cosy eveningwith her for all I care!”

There was movement, that chair dragging across the floor sound again, followed by footsteps. You held your breath.

“I thought ‘no one can share a bed with that’, Bard! Are you trying to get her crushed?”

For a moment you blinked in surprise, imagining Jaskier’s face was going the same.

You weren’t surprised Geralt had heard Jaskier’s comment earlier – you were surprised he had cared enough to remember it.

“I was just trying to barter us more rooms, Geralt. We all know the beds you share – ”

Another shuffle of furniture, and this time faster footsteps. The ping of Jaskier’s lute as it fell to the floor, a growl from deep in Geralt’s chest usually reserved for beasts and pub fights, the pounding of the wind and rain against the windows. You listened with your eyes wide open, blankly looking at the staircase below you, frozen with shock.

They bickered, but they never fought.

You were the problem. They had both presumed their own beds, and you were problem, unwanted in either room and apparently completely left out of the conversation. With the keys warm in your hand, you once-again considered locking yourself in one of the rooms and letting them cuddle.

When you heard another scuffle, saw Jaskier running towards the steps, you finally snapped out of your shock.

“What’s your problem?” you demanded of the bard, already on the defensive.

As you descended you saw the anger drop from Geralt’s features, his face schooled as he halted his chase and feigned innocence. Like children caught brawling they looked across at one another, a silent threat between them.

“Just warming up,” Geralt grumbled, his swords shifting against his back as he fidgeted where he stood.

“Something like that. He’s a maniac, that one. Ready to take my head off.”

You stared them both down for a moment, aware your authority was undermined by the blanket draped around you and the slight chatter of your teeth.

“The fires are lit. Have we decided rooms?”

You reached the floor, forcing them both back towards one another as you made a beeline for the fireplace. The chairs had been displaced as the bard and the Witcher ran around them, and you dragged one back towards the fireplace with a pointed look at Jaskier before sitting in it heavily.

Geralt quietly joined you, claiming the other chair, leaving Jaskier to hover beside the hearth. He picked up his lute, starting to tune it, the fall leaving the strings awfully off-pitch.

“What do you want to do?” Geralt rumbled, his voice far softer than it had been as he argued earlier.

You wondered if it was guilt you were hearing.

“Totally up to you. As long as I can catch some rest, I’m happy.”

Geralt shifted in his seat.

“Why don’t you go with Jaskier? Might be more room.”

You frowned. The beds in the rooms could easily fit two people, likely more. As you went to say as much, Jaskier interrupted.

“Sure, whatever you want Geralt.”

He stretched out the Witcher’s name unnaturally, making you look between the two men, seeing if they would give you some inkling of the reason they were so frosty towards one another.

Instead, the Witcher nodded, holding out his hand for a key. Baffled, you handed him the key for the second room you had lit the hearth in, not even offered a thank you as he collected his damp belongings and stormed up the stairs.

Jaskier was similarly indifferent to you, occupied by his lute as he meandered up to the room, waiting for you to unlock the door without a word.

“You two fight like an old married couple, you know that, right?” you grumbled, making sure Jaskier could hear as he brushed past you into the room.

You wrinkled your nose at the damp of his coat brushing against you. Jaskier appraised the room, judgemental expression lit by the warm light from the fire. It was still burning strong. You hoped Geralt’s fire was the same, hot and welcoming, letting the Witcher relax and calm down.

Everyone was highly strung, you knew this rest was well needed.

“Anyone would be a fool to marry him. He’s selfish as anything.”

Closing the door behind you, you stood in place, waiting for Jaskier to settle.

“He’s not selfish. Nothing of the sort, and you know it.”

Jaskier let out a cruel laugh, set down his lute, and started stripping off his wet clothes, letting them dry on the floor beside yours.

“He certainly fucking acts it sometimes.”

You shouldn’t get involved.

You shouldn’t encourage Jaskier.

You shouldn’t.

“What do you mean?”

“He didn’t even offer to share a room. The gentlemanly thing to do.”

You tried not to feel stung by his dismissive tone.

“You didn’t exactly seem to want me either,” you pointed out, hugging your blanket closer to you as Jaskier reached bare skin, pulling a new pair of trousers from his bag.

You didn’t want to strip off, you had barely stopped shivering in the few thin, dry layers you had left.

“Of course I don’t mind, but he should have offered!”

The bard was deflecting, and you tried not to feel the pain of it as it stung deep in your chest.

“Right.”

Wordlessly, you chose the side of the bed closest to the door, keeping the blanket around you as you settled down and occupied as little space as possible.

Jaskier stayed behind you, fidgeting and moving his belongings, trying to dry some and sort others. The noise made it hard to sleep, worsened still by his humming. You screwed your eyes closed, pulled the blankets closer and curled up. The room was warming, and it would probably have been tolerable if you weren’t so damn cold already. Your shivers made you miserable, trying to stop your teeth chattering, groaning at the ache in your skull.

Sleep evaded you as frustration welled up in your eyes, hot, itchy tears falling to the mattress. Jaskier was still fussing, stoking the fire and moving his clothes around. When you heard the first strum of his lute, you wanted to scream.

The distinct press of his fingers ghosting across the frets made you tense, before he strummed the wretched thing again. Fuck. You could kill him.

“Are you really going to play now?” you mumbled, fighting a full-body shiver.

“I’m not tired,” he replied, accompanied by a familiar series of notes from his latest composition.

“You’re overtired.”

He shrugged you off with a petulant huff, the lute getting louder yet again. You heard a thud against the adjoining wall, Geralt clearly equally unimpressed with the wretched noise.

For a few moments more he continued to play, and you tried to fight the anger settling hot in your chest. All of you were exhausted, cold, hungry, miserable. And now Jaskier was being a prick.

He started singing.

You considered murdering him.

Instead you pulled yourself from the bed, keeping your blanket and snagging your pillow, storming from the room. Jaskier seemed to barely notice, continuing his rendition without hesitation as you slammed the door behind you.

Fuck.

True to his word the innkeeper had brought meals up, but left them outside the doors of the room. You knocked on Geralt’s door before taking your own plate and goblet downstairs. Jaskier could have his meal cold. It was all he deserved for that performance.

Hungry and drowsy, you folded yourself into one of the chairs in front of the fire, frowning as you remembered the argument Geralt and Jaskier had been in just minutes ago. It felt forever ago. As you ate your meal you pulled the blanket close around yourself, blinking at the fire. The faint sounds of Jaskier practicing upstairs were blessedly drowned out by the wind howling down the chimney, the storm outside only worsening. Your hands were numb as you threw another log on the fire. The innkeeper was nowhere to be seen, the front door firmly closed against the weather

You stared at the flames for longer, no longer feeling their warmth. Your legs and hands were numb, but exhaustion was claiming you, and you couldn’t move to warm up. The chair was hard beneath you, your blanket doing very little to cushion it.

Footsteps on the stairs made you jump, your daze interrupted.

Geralt descended the stairs, crockery in hand, his long white hair hanging limp around his face. You thought it looked like icicles, smoothed in place. He set his plate on the counter with a dull thud, pausing as he looked at you.

“Jaskier said you left,” he stated.

“Hm?”

Geralt looked around the room, at you folded into the chair, a furrow appearing on his brow.

“You left..?” He repeated.

You found yourself struggling to understand him, cocking your head.

“He was loud.”

He crossed the room in long strides, on hand cupping your face and the other finding your hand, hissing as his warm skin made contact with yours.

“Fuck, you’re cold.”

His palms felt burning, seeping fire into your skin, and you shuddered at the temperature difference.

“How long have you been down here? The rooms are warmer.”

“Not long. Couldn’t sleep, too cold.”

You knew your words were slurring, not only to your own ears, but to Geralt’s. He frowned more deeply at you.

“You’re really, really cold.”

Nodding, you closed your eyes, feeling tiredness overcome you.

“You need to come upstairs,” he insisted, taking your plate and letting it clatter to the floor.

You nodded again, but your limbs were too stiff to move. As his hands left your skin, you mourned the loss, feeling that stinging pain return. Your fingers and toes were aching.

“C’mon,” he grumbled, trying to pull you to your feet.

You did your best to comply, but it was difficult, painful. Tiredness flooded your system yet again. The shivering had stopped, and yet the coldness continued.

“Help me out here,” Geralt complained, dragging you by one shoulder as the rest of your body tried felt too heavy to follow.

“I’m trying,” you mumbled.

“Hardly.”

Your feet weren’t behaving underneath you, knees struggling to take your weight. You’d preferred it in the chair, at least your feet ached less. As you stumbled Geralt caught you, grunting a complain. For a moment he held you upright, letting you recover you balance. Suddenly his grip tightened.

“You’re not shivering,” he noticed, words sharp as he frowned at you.

“Should be,” you replied, “I’m fucking cold.”

“I know.”

He seemed to turn dismissive, bodily moving you across the room, but you could sense the concern in him. Even through your daze, you wondered where he was taking you. Neither of them had wanted to share. Getting up the stairs was more of a struggle than you expected, and you frowned at the ache in your muscles are you struggled to ascend them without leaning on Geralt.

The Witcher had gone quiet, hugging you to him, and you found it more terrifying than you wanted to admit. At the top of the stairs he continued to bundle you along towards his room, and you realised he was right. You weren’t shivering, even as wind rushed down the cold corridor.

“Keep talking to me,” he insisted, chest rumbling against your torso.

The thought left your mind immediately. You were fighting to stay awake. He found his key quickly, one arm caging you against him as he opened his door. Geralt worked efficiently as he pulled the sheets aside on his bed, settling you under them and tucking them around you.

The fire had started to dwindle, burning low in the hearth. As you moved under the covers, trying to warm up, Geralt rebuilt and stoked the flames. The fire flickered up, bathing the room in light. You couldn’t feel the heat, but hopefully it would follow soon. You closed your eyes, trying to find sleep now the noise of Jaskier’s lute had finally stopped.

“Talk to me,” he repeated gruffly, standing between the fireplace and the bed.

“Sorry.”

You opened your eyes, seeing his raised eyebrow. You smiled despite yourself.

“What do you want me to talk about?”

“Anything,” he insisted, busying himself with sorting through his belongings, “just keep talking.”

He found another fur but grunted at seeing it wet, setting it in front of the fire to dry.

“I don’t think… I think I got colder than I realised earlier. And Jaskier wouldn’t stop fucking making noise so I couldn’t sleep, and the food didn’t make me feel better, and I can’t feel my toes –”

He stepped back for a moment, appraising the room, and you forced your eyes to stay open against the tiredness trying to claim you.

“As in, they’re cold? Or you can’t feel your toes?” he demanded.

You met his gaze, trying to understand the question. He strode towards the bed and found your feet beneath the blankets, stripping off your socks to feel your frozen toes.

“Fuck.”

He looked up at you, yellow eyes filled with seriousness and concern, and you fought back tears. Had you upset him somehow?

He bundled your feet back up, covering them first with socks then with one of his jackets, all the while tugging at the wooden bedframe. After a few moments of consideration, he suddenly dragged the whole frame across the floor, making you startle and grab at the mattress as the whole piece of furniture was moved closer to the fireplace.

You hoped no one else had been woken up by the noise, but your worry was immediately sated by the warmth of the flames against your exposed face. Geralt looked at you, waiting for approval, and you smiled weakly.

“Thanks.”

He nodded, busying himself with moving things around the newly-rearranged room. A few moments, you heard his gruff voice repeating himself.

“Talk.”

“This is much better, thanks Geralt. I’m sorry for kicking you out of your bed. I don’t know how I got so cold, it’s not even snowing, I guess just the wind and the rain…”

“You don’t need to explain.”

Blinking away tears, you stared sideways at the flames, hearing Geralt approaching behind you.

“I want to warm you up…” he trailed off, “if you don’t mind…”

Nodding, you shuffled forwards, but Geralt’s hand on your bundle of blankets stopped you before you could move from the centre of the bed.

“That’s fine,” he mumbled.

Stripping off his last piece of leather armour, he quickly slid himself beneath the sheets behind you, soothing the sudden flash of cold air with the warmth of his own body. Sandwiched between the Witcher and the fire, a sudden shudder wracked your body.

You heard Geralt exhale behind you. One warm hand found your wrist, and you realised he was checking your pulse.

“Am I still alive?” you teased.

Your smile dropped as his hand tightened on your wrist, before letting go, finding a place on your waist and hugging you closer to his chest instead.

“Sorry,” you apologised to him, shoving your face into the pillow beneath you as Geralt’s breath steadied against your back.

Geralt hummed.

“I think you were in a lot more danger than you realised.”

You lay in silence, giving him the opportunity to elaborate as your shivers and the heat around you finally returned sensation to your body. Everything ached, and you realised with a start that you would still be stuck, freezing in the entryway to the inn without Geralt’s help.

“On Kaer Morhen, when I was a boy… a lot of us didn’t survive. Very few survived, in fact. And they’d often… succumb to the cold.”

Fidgeting against him, you made space for the Witcher to wrap his arms tighter around you. His breath was hot against your neck as he continued speaking.

“We knew they were going… when they stopped seeming cold. The shivering would stop. The pain would stop. Then they would just fade away where they lay.”

His upbringing and training haunted the Witcher, but you had never heard it so plainly in his voice. Pain echoed through every word.

“I’m sorry, Geralt.”

“We would try to warm them up – we would. Ale and blankets and moving them closer to the fires… but the mountains are so cold. The air is thin. If they couldn’t survive it… we couldn’t help them.”

“There’s nothing you could have done,” you reassured, clumsily finding his hand on your waist and squeezing it.

He sought out your pulse again, murmuring something against your neck as he found it stronger. As your warmth returned so did your clarity, and you felt a growing pang of embarrassment at clinging to him. Or rather, letting him cling to you.

“I know you didn’t want to share, I’m sorry,” you began, but the Witcher shook his head against you.

His hair had started to frizz as it dried in the firelight, you noticed.

“No, Jaskier… I’m going to kill him for letting you freeze.”

“Jaskier has nothing to do with it,” you chided, closing your eyes against the warmth from the flames.

“He… I thought the beds wouldn’t fit two people. I didn’t want to take up too much space. Or crush you in my sleep.”

You laughed, and he made an affronted hum. Oh, he’s serious.

“I’ll wake you up if you crush me. I thought maybe I smelled too bad or something,” you teased, but Geralt wouldn’t bite.

“We should have found cover earlier. We left you with Roach for hours, you weren’t moving as much as Jaskier, singing his fucking songs, no wonder you got cold.”

“It’s not your fault –”

“As long as you’re travelling with me, it’s my fault,” his voice rumbled against your ear, and you couldn’t help the deep inhale you took at his protectiveness.

As your sensation returned, you could feel his whole body pressed against your back.

“It’s not,” you argued weakly, not fight left.

Sleep was claiming both of you, and now it seemed far safer, as your shudders subsided and your toes tingled with warmth from the fireplace. You closed your eyes, head beside Geralt’s bicep as he spooned you, fidgeting to get comfortable.

“I’m sorry you thought you couldn’t come to me,” he whispered, a confession.

“I should have – sorry. And I’m sorry about Kaer Morhen… there’s nothing you could have done. It wasn’t fair…”

For a moment there was nothing but his breath, mingling with the patter of rain. Then he answered, another confession against your skin.

“Thank you.”

Sleep grew closer again, Jaskier’s lute quietening and a cosy peace settling over the two of you, an oasis in the cold air of the inn.

“Wake me up if you get cold. I’ll sort the fire out.”

“Mhm,” you mumbled back.

You smiled as his hand found yours once more, checking the pulse at your wrist before cupping your hand against your sternum. You wondered if he felt your heart race at the gesture.

“Thank you,” you whispered, catching his attention one last time.

He shifted, cold sneaking under the blankets for a moment and making you groan, before his lips pressed to your hairline. As he pulled you close to him again you tried to bite down a giddy smile, feeling his own grin against your neck.

The shifting light of the fire was your companion as you let sleep take you, grasped to Geralt’s chest and safe against the storm outside.

Sometimes, Obi-Wan forgets that he’s not supposed to look at you a certain way. He forgets that he’s not supposed to let his eyes drift, to let his eyes tempt him to trail down the length of your arms, your neck. The opening cuts of your dress, the slit that runs up your leg, the collars emphasizing your neck, the neckline exposing your cleavage. Jewelry draped over your skin, earrings hanging off of your lobes or the curves of your ears, the rings on your fingers, pendants and lockets collared around your neck.

He’s grown to appreciate opulence. Your need to adorn yourself with riches and glamour when you were in attendance with important people from all over the galaxy. He’s grown to like shiny things, only because you made them look so valuable. Compared to his standard issued brown Jedi robes made of scratchy fabrics, you in your silks and satins of every known colour were the highlight of his day.

And sometimes… he likes that they make him forget.

“You shouldn’t be here–” Your hushed words are smothered by his kisses the moment he closes the door. “Obi– Obi–”

You try to warn him that he’s messing up your make-up, that he’s smearing your lipstick all over his skin. But you sincerely doubt he cares and quite frankly, neither do you. It is amusing, though, to see him like this. A mess, dishevelled and just as desperate as you are.

Small bouts of laughter are swallowed into his mouth, your tongue brushing into his parted lips. He inhales each sweet noise you make while you’re trapped in his arms, where, despite your light protests, you don’t seem very keen on escaping. You’re as enthralled in him as he is with you. Your mouth eagerly slots along his, moaning into his embrace whilst you’re backed up against the door. Hands threading through his neatly combed hair, gripping his shoulders, nearly pulling at the robes. Legs curling around his waist through the fabrics of your heavily decorated gown.

You’ve both missed each other so much after being parted for nearly a fortnight now. Thirteen days. Thirteen agonizing days without laying eyes on you, without hearing your voice, without seeing you from a distance or even brushing his hand against yours in passing. The purest form of torture. Far worse than walking through the sands of Tatooine at midday without a drop of water.

But it was worth the wait. His patience has now been rewarded.

“I had to–” he breathes between kisses, cupping your cheek as he gently bites your bottom lip. “I had to see you.”

Your mere presence is a palm to his anguish. Obi-Wan melts under your touch, craning his neck so your lips can scorch every inch of his exposed skin. He inhales every ounce of your affection like the glutton he’s become.

“Every moment I spend away from you is agony.” he confesses into the quiet room.

You pull away to look at him, cupping the side of his neck. He nuzzles into your touch as you slowly drag your hand up to his flushed cheek. “Would you feel better knowing I feel the same?”

“No, absolutely not.” The answer takes you by surprise.

“No?” you tilt your head, curious. “And why is that?”

He takes a moment to let out a heavy sigh, his expression becoming solemn at the thought. “I don't like knowing you’re in pain.”

His forehead pressed against yours. You both absorb the silence that follows.

You’re both uncertain of the future. One without either one of you in the picture is not an option. You’ve both done so much to keep coming back to each other, sacrificing bits and bits of precious time to find ways to see each other. Months of planning, days and weeks in between of each other’s absence is a wound that festers, that eats away at the soul. But not at the bond that ties you to him and him to you.

This, running your hands down his clothed chest while he tightens his arms around you, is the payoff. Meeting in secret. Stealing kisses behind closed doors. Stealing touches when no one is looking. Breathing in each other’s air, laughter and presence. Not knowing when it’ll be the last time.

It’s no ideal. You both hate that it has to be this way. But neither one of you can help it.

“We don’t have much time.” you whisper with sorrow, frowning while your eyes cast down to his swollen, red-stained, lips. “I must go back soon.”

Obi-Wan’s knuckles brush against your cheek as he shares your grief. You feel his as he feels yours. He leans in closer and presses his lips to yours again, whispering back, “A few more moments.” 

Just like that, you smile again. You never thought he’d be so needy, but it’s terribly endearing that he is. That he throws all of his Jedi teachings out the window when he’s alone with you.

“Obi-Wan…”

A few more moments is all he has with you. It’s not a selfish request. How can you deny him that? So you grant him that, leaning more into his lips with a smile, arms slowly curling around his neck once more.

When he finally lets you go, your eyes widen when you remember.

“Wait.” You pull him back close, using your handkerchief to wipe the smudges off of his face. “You have a little…”

He allows you to do so and breaks into hushed laughter. You can’t help but join him. Small moments like these are always worth treasuring. Which is why neither you nor Obi-Wan will ever give this up.

You can only wish that things become easier but…

that would be too much to ask for.

at some point, there's got to be some smut between Obi-Wan and the Senator. there has to be. i need to write it down.

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