MARY

“sam! stop! my parents are gonna smell that!” you groaned, rushing over to open your window letting in the cool night air.

“calm down sweetheart, they won’t even notice.” sam still put out the weed he was smoking, despite his words.

sam was laying flat on his back on your bed, the pink blankets and pillows clashing against sam’s green band t-shirt and black jeans. he crawled into your window an hour ago and all he had done was flop back on your bed, complaining about his teachers.

it would be weird to people, the prissy popular cheerleader captain having a stoner ‘freak’ in her room. maybe that’s why you and sam kept it a secret, or maybe it was because your parents would never approve of him.

you joined sam on the bed, instead choosing to curl into his arms, which he opened for you. your skirt had slightly ridden up and your blouse already had a couple buttons popped open, due to sam’s earlier greeting towards you. sam’s hand trailed up your skirt, resting comfortably on the curve of your ass that your underwear didn’t cover.

you played with the little hole in his shirt, “you think we’ll ever tell anyone about us?”

sam’s silence at first gave away the fact he was taken aback by the question, “that depends princess, you want your parents banning you from seeing me?”

you rolled your eyes at the nickname sam used, the same one he first called you that winter day when you two first met. it was fall now, and he still insisted on calling you that, even with you two being together. “no, obviously i don’t. maybe they’ll like you.”

sam snorted at your hopefulness, turning to face you on his side now. “right, like that’ll happen.”

you also turned on your side, meeting his eyes. you pulled his face towards yours, connecting your lips instead of replying. you two sat slowly, never breaking the kiss. you crawled into his lap, letting his hands grab more at your ass now.

sam made his way down to your neck, kissing and sucking on sensitive areas. you quickly rid your blouse, letting the cool air hit your bra covered chest. right as sam’s hands traveled to the back of your bra, reaching for the clasp, a loud knock on your door sounded.

you practically jumped off sam, while your moms voice rang through the other side of the door, “honey, can you open up?”

“um, yeah mom, just give me a sec.” your voice was shaky as you looked towards sam, whose face had a resting smirk on it at your panic.

“asshole! this isn’t funny!” you whispered towards him before your eyes landed on the closet. you quickly grabbed sam’s arm, shoving him in the closet and shutting the door.

you yanked your bedroom door open, facing your mom. “oh honey, you could’ve put on a shirt, i didn’t know you were changing.”

you froze, completely forgetting about the fact you didn’t have a shirt on and that hickeys were actively forming on your neck. you reached for a hoodie, pulling it on.

your mom wandered into your room, sitting on the bed. she turned towards you, but then stopped, “whose hoodie is that?”

you looked down at the hoodie that you just put on and mentally cursed yourself for not checking what it was before throwing it on, the hoodie was a metallica hoodie, smelling exactly like sam, which was weed and a cologne he wore that always drove you nuts. “nobody’s mom, it’s, uh, it’s mine.”

your moms confusion grew, “why would you own that? you don’t even listen to that-”

you cut your mom off, “so what did you need mom?”

“right, your dad wants to know if you would like to join him on sunday night when he goes to the timbers?”

you groaned at the last name, jase timber. an asshole in your grade that your parents won’t stop bothering you about. “no mom, i don’t want to go. i already told you im not interested in jase.”

your moms face grew stern, “honey, you need to start taking jase seriously. he’s a star quarterback and straight A student.”

you let out a scoff, “there’s nothing to take seriously mom. we aren’t in a relationship and we aren’t going to be.”

your mom let out her own scoff now, “i don’t see why you two shouldn’t be. you twos lives fit perfectly. are you ever going to start taking dating seriously?”

you sighed at her question, you wished you could shout at her that you already had a boyfriend and he was better than jase could ever be. at the thought of sam you groaned, realizing he was hearing all this from the closet. “it’s a little hard to take dating seriously when you and dad would only approve of a straight A, football star, asshole.”

“language young lady!” your mom stood from your bed now, “me and your dad are trying to look out for you. give you what’s best.”

your frustration grew, “well maybe i don’t want someone like that mom! maybe i want someone who will see me for me and not just as a prissy head cheerleader, and someone who has a real personality and interests, someone who enjoys music and actually spending time with me, not someone who shows me off like an object.” tears were practically spilling out of your eyes by the time you finished, your frustration bubbling out.

your mom shook her head, “you’re going on sunday.”

with that she left and shut the door behind her with an extra amount of force needed. you sat on your bed, burying your head in your hands, completely forgetting about your boyfriend in the same room as you.

tears finally spilled out of you, leading to ugly hard sobs. you felt a dip in the bed before feeling arms wrap around you, and you getting pulled into sam’s lap. you looked up at him, tears coating your face. “i’m sorry, i don’t want to go on sunday, they’ll make me.”

you rarely saw soft sides of sam, but his expression completely changed into one of softness when looking at all your tears. “it’s okay princess, don’t worry about it, okay?” he wiped your tears that were still falling down your face. “if it makes you feel better, you look really pretty when crying.”

you let out a wet laugh at his stupid attempt to flirt right now, “you’re so dumb.” his fingers were still wiping softly at your face when you looked to meet his eyes, “i love you sam, really like i am completely fully in love with you.”

he kissed your head ever so softly, “i love you too princess.”

este speaks / i don’t care i loveeee cheerleader reader and sam

His heart condition hadn't disappeared. The surgeries, treatments, and medications had bought him time, but not certainty. Every board meeting, every international flight, every sleepless night carried risks his doctors constantly reminded him about.

Clay hated being reminded.

So he worked.

And worked.

And worked.

The only person who seemed capable of keeping up with him was his executive assistant, you.

Frighteningly organized, and somehow managed to keep Clay's impossible schedule from collapsing. You knew which investors needed flattery, which executives needed pressure, and exactly how many minutes it took Clay to lose patience.

You were also hiding something

An autoimmune disease where the immune system mistakenly attacks healthy tissues. Some days it caused exhaustion so severe you could barely lift your arms. Other days it attacked your joints, kidneys, or lungs.

Yet nobody at the Company knew

Especially not Clay.

Because in a company that worshipped performance, weakness felt dangerous.

In your first three weeks, you'd memorized his schedule better than he had.

Within six weeks, you started leaving coffee outside his office exactly fifteen minutes before his meetings.

Within three months, you'd become indispensable. You knew which investors irritated him, and when he was pretending to be fine after losing another night's sleep over the company.

Which was a problem.

Because Clay found himself noticing things.

Like how you occasionally gripped the edge of your desk when standing.

How you disappeared into the restroom during long conferences.

How your smile sometimes looked forced.

How you were always tired.

He recognized the signs because he saw them every morning in the mirror.

--

Every month, your test results got a little worse.

Most days you looked perfectly healthy.

You smiled through meetings. Answered emails. Organized board presentations.

You learned how to hide the tremor in your hands.

How to sit down before the dizziness became noticeable.

How to excuse yourself to the restroom when the pain becomes unbearable.

Nobody noticed.

Especially not Clay.

Or at least, that's what you thought.

It happened during a board meeting.

One moment you were standing beside the conference table, taking notes.

The next, the room tilted, voices blurred, your vision darkened.

You barely managed to catch yourself against the wall.

"Meeting's over." Clay's voice cut through the room.

Executives immediately protested. "We haven't finished discussing—"

"I said it's over."

The room fell silent.

You hated that everyone was staring. You hated that Clay was already crossing the room toward you.

"I'm fine," you whispered.

"You nearly fell."

"I just skipped lunch."

His eyes narrowed.

A look you had seen him use on competitors before destroying them in negotiations.

It was somehow worse directed at you.

Clay stood nearby with his jaw clenched.

You weren't fine.

And you both knew it.

The gala had stretched well past midnight.

Crystal chandeliers glittered overhead, cameras flashed at every turn, and Clay Beresford had spent the last four hours smiling through conversations with investors and executives.

You, as always, stayed a step behind him, discreetly reminding him of names, schedules, and who he still needed to greet before the evening ended.

By the time the event was over, your feet ached, your head throbbed, and all you wanted was your bed.

"I'll have the driver take you home," Clay said as the two of you stepped outside into the cool night.

"You don't have to."

"I'm already leaving."

You hesitated before giving in with a tired nod.

"...Thanks."

The city lights blurred outside the tinted windows as the car rolled through quiet streets.

Neither of you spoke much.

Clay loosened his tie while answering a few emails on his phone. You leaned against the window, exhaustion finally catching up to you.

"You okay?" he asked without looking up.

"Mhm."

"You've been quiet."

"Just tired."

He glanced over. "You looked pale halfway through the gala."

"I skipped dessert. Tragic, I know right?"

A faint smile tugged at his lips. "You always joke when I ask serious questions."

"It's a talent."

The conversation faded after that.

When the car stopped outside your apartment building, you gathered your purse and heels in a hurry. "Goodnight, Mr. Beresford."

"...Clay."

You looked back.

"Goodnight, Clay."

He watched until you disappeared inside before telling the driver to head home.

--

The next morning, Clay climbed into the backseat, coffee in one hand and his tablet in the other.

As the driver pulled away, something caught his eye.

A plain manila folder rested on the floor where you had been sitting.

He reached down.

Your name was printed neatly on the tab. He intended to hand it back without another thought. But as he picked it up, several papers slipped loose onto the leather seat.

One page landed face up.

His eyes caught a familiar logo at the top.

A hospital.

He instinctively reached to gather the papers—

Then froze.

Patient Name

Below it were words that made his stomach tighten.

Diagnostic Summary.

His brows knitted together.

This wasn't a routine checkup. He skimmed only enough to understand that you weren't just overworked.

You were sick. Not with a cold. Not with exhaustion.

The report detailed months of appointments, specialist consultations, abnormal test results, medications...

The dates stretched back nearly a year.

Clay slowly lowered the papers into his lap.

A year.

You had been sitting across from him in meetings, organizing billion-dollar deals, reminding him to eat lunch...

...while carrying this completely alone.

His grip tightened around the folder. His gaze remained fixed on the page, his jaw set.

Finally, he closed the folder with careful hands.

There was only one thing on his mind.

Why hadn't you told him?

--

Later that evening, you found him in his office overlooking the city.

The lights of Manhattan glittered below.

Clay stood by the windows, jacket discarded, sleeves rolled up.

"Is there something you need to tell me? If so, better tell me now."

You frown, confused, "Not that I know of, Sir?"

"You've been sick for a year." He stated.

You froze. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"Then tell me why my assistant keeps visiting a specialist every Tuesday at seven-thirty in the morning."

Your heart stopped. "You had me followed?"

"No." His jaw tightened.

"You dropped a file in the car last night."

Silence. The kind that felt dangerous.

Not because Clay was angry.

Because he looked hurt.

"You should've told me."

You stared at the floor. "Why?"

The question surprised him.

"Because you work for me."

"Exactly." An exhausted laugh escaped you. "People don't invest in liabilities, Clay."

Something shifted in his expression.

For the first time, he wasn't looking at an employee. He was looking at someone he cared about. "Do you really think that's how I see you?"

You couldn't answer.

Because lately, you weren't sure what he saw when he looked at you.

And that uncertainty was far scarier than your diagnosis.

From that day forward, Clay became impossible.

He started checking whether you'd eaten. Demanded breaks. Rescheduled meetings if you looked tired. Sent medical specialists' names to your inbox. Had soup delivered to your apartment when you worked from home.

You accused him of being overbearing.

He accused you of being stubborn.

Neither of you stopped.

Clay had spent years believing he was the one responsible for protecting everyone else.

But for the first time in his life, there was someone he couldn't simply fix with money, influence, or determination.

And for the first time in yours, there was someone refusing to walk away when things became difficult.

As your condition worsened, the balance between CEO and assistant began to blur.

Late-night strategy sessions became quiet dinners. Business trips became opportunities for Clay to make sure you weren't pushing yourself too hard. And somewhere between hospital waiting rooms, boardrooms, and sleepless nights, both of you realized the same thing:

The man everyone believed was untouchable had never been afraid of losing his fortune.

He was afraid of losing you.

And the woman who spent a year managing his life had forgotten how to let someone take care of hers.

Until Clay Beresford decided he wasn't asking permission anymore.

He was staying.

No matter what happened next.

--

The ambulance lights had barely faded from the hospital entrance when the news spread through the institution.

The CEO had collapsed.

No warning.

No dramatic speech.

No chance to catch himself.

A 2 days passed, and the cardiac ICU was unusually quiet.

Monitors hummed softly beside his bed, each beep reminding everyone that his failing heart was still barely keeping up.

Clay stared out the window, dressed in a pale hospital gown instead of his usual tailored suit.

His transplant had finally been approved.

The call they'd waited months for could come at any moment.

A knock sounded.

Without looking, he already knew. "Come in."

You stepped inside carrying a laptop and a thick folder.

"You know," you said, setting everything on the bedside table, "most CEOs only take one or two sick days."

He gave you a tired glance.

"What... are you doing here"

"To haunt you, because of the hypocrisy! Of taking care of dear ol me when you're dealing with something yourself. "

Clay looked away

You opened the folder. "You have forty-three emails marked urgent."

"I'll answer them. You can go-"

"No."

He frowned. "No?"

"No."

For a while they simply sat in silence.

It wasn't awkward. It never had been.

The monitor filled the room with its steady rhythm.

Beep.

Beep.

Beep.

Until Clay finally spoke. "I scared everyone."

You looked up. "You scared the board."

"I meant..." His voice grew quieter.

"...you."

You hesitated. "You did"

"I don't remember falling."

"You wouldn't."

"I remember signing paperwork."

"You were arguing over a contract clause."

"I won?"

You rolled your eyes. "You passed out mid-sentence."

"...So probably not."

Another silence settled.

Clay stared at the monitor. "My doctors say the next time this happens..."

He didn't finish. He didn't need to.

You knew.

The collapse had been a warning. His heart wasn't going to wait much longer.

"I'm sorry," Clay said quietly.

"For what?"

"For not telling you about my condition... For confronting you when I had no right."

His fingers curled around the hospital blanket.

"I forgive you. I..I needed someone I could be truthful with. And it's fine, you didn't have to tell me about your condition"

Clay relaxes, "I might die."

"No."

"It's possible."

"It's possible your surgery goes well."

"It isn't guaranteed."

"No surgery is."

Clay laughed softly. "You always argue with statistics."

"I argue with pessimism."

"They're different."

"Not when you're involved."

He turned toward you for the first time since you arrived.

"What if I don't wake up?"

The question hung in the air. Not dramatic. Not theatrical. Just honest.

You felt your throat tighten. "You know what lupus taught me?"

Clay shook his head.

"That you can spend your entire life preparing for the worst..."

You folded your hands in your lap.

"...and still miss the days you actually get."

He watched you carefully.

"You don't get to decide you've already lost."

"I don't decide."

"No."

You met his eyes. "You just assume."

He was quiet for so long, you wondered if you had pushed too far.

Finally, he asked, "Are you scared?"

You almost laughed. "Constantly."

"My surgery?"

"My disease."

You looked down at your hands.

"Every flare makes me wonder if this is the one that damages something permanently."

A pause.

"But if I only thought about that..." You shrugged.

"...I'd never come to work."

Clay smiled—a genuine one this time. "I'd have been completely useless."

"You are sometimes."

"I pay you well."

"You do." You showed a smile. "You ever get tired?" you asked quietly.

"Of work?"

"Of being brave."

The question settled heavily between you.

Clay stared out the window.

Finally he answered. "Every day."

You nodded. "Me too."

For a long moment, neither spoke. The silence wasn't uncomfortable. It was understood.

Two people carrying invisible battles.

Two people pretending less and less each day.

And for the first time in years, Clay realized something.

Maybe surviving wasn't about finding a cure.

Maybe it was about finding someone who understood the fight.

--

Clay looked down at the hospital bracelet around his wrist.

You stood and straightened the blanket absentmindedly, the same way you'd straighten the stack of papers on his desk.

"I'll be here," you said.

"You don't have to."

"I know."

He looked at you.

"You should go home."

You shook your head.

"I've got nowhere more important to be."

For the first time since he was admitted, the fear in Clay's eyes eased—not because the surgery was certain to succeed, but because, whatever happened next, he wouldn't face it alone.

I.. actually have never seen Awake, hehe, I really want to! But I'm scared that it's gonna be so freaking sad. I already have my guesses, like Clay's wife is probably sneaking with the doctor and shiit idk but I have seen edits of him, specifically the cure edit, which adds to my sadness. ANYWAYS YEAH. I'm very busy, so this is a rushed effort to post smth.

The apartment was quiet in that rare, delicate way that only existed between the endless movements of Coruscant’s living sky. Outside the vast transparisteel windows, the city stretched into infinity, layers of glowing traffic lanes weaving between impossible towers that shimmered with artificial starlight. Rain moved through the upper atmosphere in soft veils, blurring neon into watercolor streaks. Inside, however, there was stillness. Warmth. The kind of stillness that had slowly been built over time rather than stumbled into, shaped by shared mornings, late-night conversations, and the quiet rituals that made a place feel like home.

You stood in the small kitchen space with your hands wrapped loosely around a mug of tea, letting the steam curl upward and fade as it reached your face. The scent was calming, familiar. It helped, in the way small things often did when larger things could not be controlled. It had been nearly three weeks since Anakin Skywalker had left for his latest campaign, three weeks filled with fractured holocalls that cut out at the worst possible moments and encrypted messages that arrived irregularly depending on how close he was to danger. Three weeks of waking up slightly too early and falling asleep slightly too late, always aware of the empty space beside you in bed.

You had told him every time he left to be careful. He had always smiled in that way of his, that half-confident, half-absent expression that suggested he believed carefulness was more of a suggestion than a rule. And every time he had answered the same way, insisting he always was careful, as though the galaxy itself did not have a long history of proving otherwise.

Still, he always came back.

The sound of the door unlocking pulled you from your thoughts so sharply that your grip tightened slightly around the mug. For a brief moment, hope and concern collided in your chest so suddenly that it stole your breath. The door slid open with a soft hiss, and then there he was.

Anakin Skywalker stepped inside like someone who had forgotten what it felt like to move without urgency. His Jedi robes were torn at the edges and darkened in places with dried mud and dust from distant battlefields. One sleeve hung in a way that suggested it had barely survived whatever had happened to it, and there were faint stains of something darker along his shoulder and jaw that your mind immediately refused to identify too closely. His hair, usually kept with at least some attempt at order, clung slightly to his forehead, damp with either sweat or rain or both. Beneath the exhaustion that lined his features, beneath the bruises that shadowed his skin, his blue eyes found you immediately.

And despite everything, he smiled.

It was small, tired, almost boyish in its persistence. “Hi,” he said softly, as though he had simply come home from a long errand rather than something far more dangerous.

For a heartbeat, you could only stare at him. The relief that flooded through you was so immediate it almost hurt. The mug slipped slightly in your hand before you set it down too quickly on the counter and crossed the room without thinking. You moved carefully when you reached him, but you still wrapped your arms around him the moment you were close enough, pressing your face briefly against his chest.

The reaction was instant. A sharp inhale escaped him, followed by the smallest flinch, and your entire body went still as understanding crashed into you. He was hurt. Of course he was hurt. The realization settled like a weight in your stomach as you pulled back just enough to look at him properly.

“You idiot,” you murmured, though there was no real anger in it. Only worry.

A weak laugh escaped him, and he leaned his weight slightly against the doorway as though it had suddenly become the only thing keeping him upright. “I missed you too,” he said lightly, though his voice was rougher than usual.

You reached up carefully, brushing your fingers along his cheek and turning his face slightly to examine him more closely. There was dried blood near his temple, a faint cut along his brow, and a bruise forming along his jaw that had not been there before he left. The sight of it made something in your chest tighten painfully. “What happened?” you asked quietly.

“Nothing serious,” he answered almost automatically, though even he seemed to realize how unconvincing that sounded.

You raised an eyebrow, and after a brief pause he let out a small sigh, the kind that carried reluctant honesty. “Okay. Some of it is mine.”

“Anakin.”

He winced slightly at the tone of his name but didn’t argue further. Instead, his gaze drifted away for a moment as though searching for a version of the truth that sounded less concerning. You didn’t let him avoid it for long. Gently, you guided him further inside, and he followed without protest, which in itself told you more than words could.

Normally he would have tried to joke, to deflect, to turn the moment into something lighter. Tonight, however, there was none of that energy. He moved slowly, carefully, as though his body had finally decided it was allowed to stop pretending nothing was wrong.

“Come sit,” you said quietly.

He obeyed immediately, lowering himself onto the edge of the bed as though it were the most natural thing in the galaxy to do so. You disappeared into the refresher for a moment, retrieving the medical kit you kept stocked for exactly these kinds of returns, and when you came back, you found him watching you with an expression that was softer than you expected. Not intense in the way he sometimes was, not distracted or analytical, but simply present. Focused on you in a way that made your chest feel strangely warm and tight all at once.

“You’re staring,” you noted as you set the kit down beside him.

“I missed looking at you,” he replied without hesitation.

Heat rose to your face before you could stop it. “You’ve been gone for three weeks.”

He hummed faintly in agreement, as though that detail supported his point rather than undermined it. “Mm.”

“And you’ve been fighting a war.”

“That too.”

You couldn’t help the soft, reluctant smile that tugged at your lips as you shook your head. “And your first instinct is to flirt?”

“I can multitask,” he said simply, and there was just enough familiar humor in his tone to make something in your chest ease slightly.

You rolled your eyes, though affection softened the gesture as you reached for the edge of his robe. “Take this off. Carefully.”

He complied, slower than usual, shrugging out of the outer layer and revealing the extent of the damage beneath. Bruises painted his shoulder and upper arm in fading shades of purple and green, and a few shallow cuts marked his skin where armor had not been enough. One bandage looked hastily applied, likely by him rather than any medic. The sight made you exhale slowly through your nose.

“You’re impossible,” you muttered under your breath.

“So I’ve been told.”

As you began cleaning the wounds, his reactions were subtle but present. A slight tightening of his jaw when antiseptic touched broken skin, a faint shift of his weight when you pressed too firmly, the occasional quiet breath drawn through his teeth. Each time, without thinking, your hand would still slightly, your touch softening instinctively, and each time his fingers would find yours as though grounding himself in the contact.

At some point, you realized he had stopped speaking entirely.

“Am I boring you?” you asked lightly after a while.

“I’m busy,” he answered.

“With what?”

“Being here,” he said simply, as though it were the most important task he had ever been assigned.

By the time you had finished cleaning the worst of it, the medical supplies were scattered across the bed in a small, controlled chaos. You reached for a cloth, dampening it in warm water, and gently brushed it along the cut near his brow. He closed his eyes almost immediately, and the tension that had been locked into his shoulders for who knew how long began to ease.

“You like this,” you observed softly.

“I’m not denying it,” he murmured.

“You’re barely conscious.”

“I’m listening.”

His voice had softened further, slipping toward exhaustion. You noticed then how close he had shifted without realizing it, how his posture had gradually folded toward you until his forehead nearly rested against your shoulder. It wasn’t dramatic. It wasn’t intentional. It was simply what happened when someone who had been holding themselves together for too long finally stopped trying.

Your hand moved instinctively to the back of his neck, fingers brushing through damp strands of hair in slow, steady motions. He exhaled quietly, the sound carrying more relief than words ever could.

“I was worried,” you admitted after a moment, your voice quieter now.

“I know,” he said.

“I hate it when you leave.”

“I know that too.”

“I hate not knowing if you’ll come back.”

At that, he lifted his head slightly, just enough to meet your gaze. There was something unguarded in his expression now, something that rarely surfaced when he was anywhere else but here. “I always try to come back,” he said gently.

“I know you do.”

A pause lingered between you, heavy but not uncomfortable. Then he spoke again, softer still. “I always come back to you.”

It wasn’t a grand promise. It wasn’t dramatic or rehearsed. It was simply true, spoken like something he had carved into himself long before saying it aloud.

You leaned forward without thinking and pressed a careful kiss to his forehead, avoiding the cut. “I love you,” you said quietly.

His eyes closed again, and when he answered, his voice was barely above a whisper. “I love you more.”

You huffed softly. “That’s not possible.”

“I’ve run the calculations.”

“You’re terrible at math.”

“I am not.”

A laugh escaped you then, soft and genuine, and something in his expression shifted at the sound. Like he had been waiting for it without realizing.

Silence settled again after that, but it was different now. Not empty. Not heavy. Just full in a quieter way. He reached for your hand, intertwining your fingers carefully, and held on as though that alone was enough to anchor him.

“I don’t know how you do it,” he said after a while.

“Do what?”

“Make everything stop hurting.”

Your throat tightened slightly, but you didn’t look away. “I can’t stop the war,” you said honestly.

“I know.”

“I can’t stop you from getting hurt.”

“I know that too.”

“But I can be here,” you continued softly, squeezing his hand gently. “And I can make sure you’re not alone when you come back.”

Anakin Skywalker - “My Angel, I’m sensing something is troubling you,” Anakin states. He already knows there’s a problem—whether it’s because of a disturbance in the force or a lover’s intuition—he knows. You, of course, do not respond to it. You remain looking out of your window at the Coruscant sky. “No. No,” he mumbles, coming up behind you and enveloping his body around yours, “We’re not going to shut each other out. I would like for you to talk to me about what is troubling you. I need to fix it, my love.” Usually, you’d comply by now, but when you don’t, he resorts to secretly using a Jedi mind trick to get it out of you. He feels a tad guilty but he needs to know what’s got you like this.

Clayton Beresford - He’s been in his home office for hours with not a single word to you. Naturally, you think you should give payback. You’re in the kitchen when Clayton walks in for a glass of water. He smiles in your direction. “Hi, baby. You look nice.” There’s no answer from you, but he doesn’t overthink it. Maybe you flashed him a smile and he missed it whilst getting the glass. He catches on when he speaks to you the second time. “How was your day?” Ever the detective, Clay knows what’s going on. He goes to you and wraps his arms around your neck from behind, your head between his biceps. Normally this would be Heaven on Earth for you, but you can’t let him know that. “Sweetheart, you’re upset?” Your lack of response gives him the right answer. “It’s because I’ve been working?” He asks with a pinch to your cheek. “Answer me.” You’re stubborn, but not immune to his tricks—you nod your head: yes. “Ah, I see. Then, it’s a good thing I was already planning on spending the rest of my day with you.” he says, telling just the whitest of lies. He was not planning on that, but he knows it’s what you need right now. When you simply hit him with a second nod of your head, he’s unsatisfied. He needs to get you talking. “What do you think of that idea, darling? Excited?”

James Kelly - You’ve got your back turned, arms crossed, pretty much full on pouting. “Why’re ya being a brat? Huh?” He spins you to face him. “Huh?! Tell me. What’s your problem?! You’re so difficult all of the time! Definition of a little brat, that’s what you are,” you still refuse to talk, and he’s already regretting using anything but gentle language. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry, baby. You’re not a brat. Talk to me. Talk to me, okay?” He pulls you into a tight hug. He’s reminded of the people who he thought cared for him, but did him so wrong. He doesn’t wanna be that. He doesn’t wanna hurt you. He stands there caressing your cheek, trying to coax it out of you until finally, you cave. “ There. We made it all better. Talk to me next time. It gets things done, ya see?”

Luke Ryder - You decide to ignore him mid argument. You just completely shut down and try to distance yourself, but he stops you. “Hey. None of that,” the shake of his head is accompanied by an equally as frustrated sigh. “Look, take a second. Think about what you wanna say instead of saying nothing at all. Come to me when you’re ready to talk.” With that, he leaves, giving you space. He hates to do it—leave—every second spent with you is precious to him. He also loves you enough to make sure you’re still level headed and can articulate yourself properly through all this.

Stephen Glass - Within seconds of realizing you’re ignoring him, tears are welling up in his eyes. “What’s going on? I don’t understand why you’re mad at me,” he whines, “I had the worst day at work ever! Chuck has been really pressuring us for a deadline! Please don’t hate me. I’m so stressed. I didn’t mean to cause this!” The story with the tears ultimately makes you feel guilty and you finally acknowledge him. He ends up crying in your lap, getting his hair played with while you explain why you were upset. It doesn’t really amount to anything, though. It ends with the general consensus being that you just need to be more patient with Stephen and give him more love and affection. What do you get out of it? Never finding out that there never really was a deadline.

Scott Barringer - He really tries his best to help gently. That’s saying a lot because he struggles so much with regulating his own emotions and attitude. He puts his hands just above your elbows, holding your arms. “Baby, c’mon. You don’t gotta be a dick about it. I wanna talk about this. All that communication shit the counselors talk about, ya know? We should try that.” Before he even gives his words a chance to work, he’s tickling you. You squeal and burst into giggles at the pure shock and feel of it. You try so hard to be mad around him, but he somehow, always has a counter for it. “Oh, yeah. There she is. Now, tell me what’s up,” he directs, pulling away from the attack with a smirk.

Anakin Skywalker - The moment your bottom comes near his lap, his hands instinctively go to hold your waist and help lower you. They settle in your lap as your back rests against his chest and his head leans on yours. His touch is gentle as he rubs your belly, your own chest, anywhere pressure may be pent up. “Is everything alright, my love? Just need to be held?”

Clayton Beresford - Clayton watches in curious silence as you come into his office and around his desk, plopping into his lap. His eyebrows raise and he smirks, “Make yourself at home.” He’d rest any free hand on your thighs and occasionally give them little pats and squeezes.

James Kelly - He’s sat on the couch with a beer when you enter the room. “Hi, Pretty,” he says, putting his arm out to wrap around your waist when he sees you’re coming to him. James presses a firm kiss to your temple and rubs up and down your side as you sit on him.

Luke Ryder - Luke is buried in his thoughts at a desk when you come over he welcomes you. He’s immediately melting into your body and holding you tight. The small moments like this mean so much to him… they’re the ones he actually likes to think about when he’s stressed. “Never wanna lose you,” he’ll mumble into your shoulder, followed by many kisses to it.

Stephen Glass - He looks at you in confusion, “What are you doing?” You just get comfortable in response. “Okay. You’re sitting. Alright,” he says, surprised and nervous… basically the usual. He’s happy about it, but shows it in his own unique way—stiffening completely up and just watching your every move.

Scott Barringer - You sit on his lap whilst he’s alone in the common area and his head is immediately on a swivel. “Baby… gonna get us in trouble,” he murmurs, but his actions betray his words as his arms snake around your waist and he leans into your body. After a moment, Scott becomes too paranoid at the idea of being banned from seeing you by the counselors and gets up, lending a hand. “C’mon. I have a better place in mind.”

mustafar was far from cold, but learning what your husband had done sent shivers down your spine. holding your head in your hands as you watched the volcanic scenery of the planet, you sighed deeply to yourself before unlocking the ship to meet who had replaced the anakin you knew.

as you walked off the ship with dread turning in your stomach and making you feel sick, your legs sped up once you spotted him striding towards you in determination to caress his wife. your name fell from his lips like a prayer, but there was no longer warmth laced in his voice—confirming what obi-wan had revealed to you just moments before. he could sense your hesitation and wariness through the force, though he excused it for nerves about the baby you carried.

“my love, i’m so glad you’re all right,” his arms engulfed you, allowing you to breathe in his scent for what may be the last time, “i saw your ship land from the distance.” clinging onto his embrace before reluctantly letting go, you tried to wish away all that had happened, to wake up from this nightmare where everything you fought for had fallen. however under this light, there was a darkness in his eyes you couldn’t explain and didn’t recognize: it terrified you.

“maker, i heard horrific things. they told me terrible, terrible things, anakin,” you choked on your words, feeling your pulse rush from just bringing it up, “that you killed younglings, that you were seduced by the dark side of the force. tell me it isn’t true, that you’re still here with me: the ani i know and fell deeply for back on naboo. all i want is your love, it’s more than enough for me.”

“love won’t save you. only my new powers will,” the implication that he did do such monstrosities tore at your heartstrings, you no longer recognized the man that smiled and stood before you, “don’t you see? this was all for you.”

“what have you done?,” stepping back with fear now seen clearly in your eyes, you violently shook your head in denial, “i don’t know who you are anymore.”

“it’s still me, i’m still your ani, i’m still your husband.”

“my husband wouldn’t do this. he is with the jedi, he is in alliance with the republic—for democracy,” as he stepped closer into your space, anakin reached out for you with his gloved hand, “chancellor palpatine has poisoned your view, and it’s breaking my heart. think about everything we’ve fought for.”

“enough. you’re either with me, or against me,” his voice grew increasingly annoyed at your hopeless pleas. there was no changing him now. all he sought to do now was save you from death.

“anakin, come back to me,” you had never seen your husband this lost and emotionally isolated before, and it killed you, “there’s still good in you, i can feel it. leave the order, leave everything behind, and we can our child together away from all the noise. i love you.”

and those were the last words you had spoken to your husband, everything going pitch blank as you felt your throat tighten and get squeezed out of air.

when it came to anakin skywalker, to love him was to suffer him.