|-/

Two rotations later, the Negotiator loomed ahead like salvation. The gunship’s ramp shuddered open, wind screaming through the hull as you helped Kix and two troopers lift a stretcher. The air inside the hangar was cooler — sterile — but the scent of charred plastoid and dried blood clung to your scrubs no matter how much you scrubbed at them.

“Easy,” you murmured, voice hoarse from shouting orders for hours on end. “Get them to Med Bay One, we’ll stabilize there.”

Kix gave a sharp nod before peeling off toward the next LAAT to help unload. The sound of boots, stretchers, shouting — it all blurred together, but it was familiar chaos, the kind that meant you were home. Or close enough.

You’d volunteered to oversee the injured from the 501st — partly because Kix trusted you, but mostly because it meant staying busy. Work kept your mind off… him.

The problem was that he seemed to be everywhere.

The moment you set foot back on the Negotiator, it was like the Force itself had decided to mock you. One corridor — there he was, standing with Commander Cody and Captain Rex, datapad in hand, brow furrowed in that eternally thoughtful way. You ducked into a storage alcove and waited until he passed.

Later, when you were sterilizing instruments, you heard his voice through the comms — calm, clipped, unmistakable — discussing battle reports. You froze mid-motion, heartbeat hammering.

Then, in the mess hall, of all places — you’d barely grabbed a cup of caf before the doors hissed open and he walked in. You didn’t even look up, but the air shifted the way it always did when he entered a room — a quiet command of space, presence sharpened by exhaustion and something unspoken. You turned on your heel and left, leaving your untouched caf steaming on the counter.

It was maddening.

Every hallway, every deck, every quiet corner — it was as if the galaxy itself conspired to remind you of him. Of the mark you now hid beneath your long sleeves and med gloves.

You told yourself it was coincidence. You told yourself you were fine.

But the truth was — every time he appeared, that invisible tether between your hearts tugged a little tighter, and the harder you tried to pull away, the more it ached.

You moved between cots with practiced ease, checking vitals, logging bacta dosages, letting the rhythm of it calm your thoughts.

The Med Bay was unusually bright that morning, sunlight from the ship’s viewport casting long, golden bands across the floor. You were halfway through updating patient charts when the doors hissed open, and in walked the last people you expected to see — General Skywalker himself and his Padawan, Ahsoka Tano.

Their presence changed the whole atmosphere. Even the injured troopers straightened, smiling through their bandages as the young commander greeted them by name, offering quick jokes and easy reassurance. Skywalker’s laughter — loud, unrestrained — filled the room like a rush of fresh air after weeks of suffocating silence.

You couldn’t help but smile as you watched them move from cot to cot. For once, the Med Bay didn’t feel like a place of pain.

“So,” you said as they approached your station, a teasing lilt in your voice, “you’re the one causing General Kenobi all the headaches?”

Skywalker arched a brow, grin tugging at his mouth. “Ah, I see you’ve heard about me then.” He extended a gloved hand with mock formality. “Anakin Skywalker.”

You took his hand briefly, trying not to laugh. “I think I’d have heard about you even if I hadn’t been told. You do tend to make an impression.”

“That’s one way to put it,” Ahsoka piped up from beside him, her tone bright and good-natured. “He also tends to blow things up. A lot of things.”

Skywalker gave her a look that was only half-serious. “Strategic explosions,” he corrected.

“Sure,” you said, pretending to jot it down on your datapad. “I’ll make a note of that in the medical records — ‘Strategic Explosions, ongoing condition.’”

You found yourself relaxing as they chatted with the wounded troopers, their energy infectious. Ahsoka had a way of listening — really listening — that reminded you of why you’d joined the Med Corps in the first place. And Anakin, for all his chaos, clearly cared about his men.

“You know,” she began casually, “General Kenobi actually said the 212th troopers couldn’t be in safer hands.”

You froze for just a second, eyes flicking up from the dressing tray. “Did he, now?”

“Mhm.” Ahsoka tilted her head, watching your reaction far too closely for comfort. “He said you were efficient, calm under pressure, and that your reports are always thorough. That’s high praise coming from him.”

You gave a soft, disbelieving snort. “Right. And next you’ll tell me he actually sleeps more than three hours a night.”

“I’m serious,” she said, laughing a little. “You don’t believe me?”

You set the tray down and leaned one hip against the counter, crossing your arms. “Forgive me if I find it hard to picture the great General Kenobi sitting down to compliment anyone. He strikes me as more of the… constructive criticism type.”

Ahsoka’s grin widened. “Oh, that too. But I think he meant it. He doesn’t usually say things he doesn’t mean.”

You hummed, skeptical. “I’ll believe it when he says it to my face.”

“Careful what you wish for,” she said, eyes glinting with mischief.

You arched a brow. “Why?”

“Because he’s right behind you.”

You nearly choked on air, spinning so fast your heel squeaked against the floor, your spine snapping into military posture—only to find the doorway completely empty.

Ahsoka’s laughter exploded like blasterfire. She bent double, clutching her stomach. “Oh—oh, Maker—you should’ve seen your face!” she gasped between fits of laughter. “That was priceless.”

You exhaled hard through your nose, trying—and failing—not to smile. “You’re cruel, Commander.”

“Seriously,” she said, wiping a tear from the corner of her eye, “you need to relax. Master Kenobi isn’t that bad once you get to know him. He even smiles sometimes.”

You raised an eyebrow. “He smiles?”

“Mm-hmm.”

You’d pay to see that. He must look even more handsome—

You stopped the thought dead in its tracks, heat rising to your cheeks.

“Ahsoka, we’re leaving!” Skywalker called from across the room.

The Togruta waved to him before turning back to you with that ever-present spark in her eyes. Skywalker caught your gaze briefly, offering a polite nod you returned automatically, before he turned toward the exit.

“It’s not that I don’t like him, Commander,” you said quickly, as if trying to anchor yourself back in reality. “We just… have our differences. And besides, I don’t think he trusts me.”

Ahsoka snorted. “Please. You two have more in common than you think.”

Your brows knit. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Ahsoka?” Skywalker’s voice carried across the Med Bay again, the edge of command softened by fond exasperation.

“I’m going!” she called back, giving you a cheeky little wave before trotting off. Her master muttered something under his breath as she joined him—whatever it was made her grin mischievously.

You watched them leave, hands on your hips, your heart still a little too quick in your chest.

More in common than you think.

You weren’t sure if that was comforting or terrifying.

****

Coruscant shimmered like a promise beneath the viewport — a tapestry of light and motion, sprawling endlessly in every direction. The Negotiator’s engines hummed through the deck plates as the ship descended into its assigned hangar. For once, there was no siren, no emergency broadcast, no sense of urgency pressing against your ribs. Just the collective sigh of a crew who had survived another campaign.

When the ramp lowered, the warm breath of the capital washed over you — the smell of durasteel and faint spice from the city far below.

“All right, everyone,” one of the senior medics called, clapping his hands. “You’ve got two rotations of shore leave. Get some rest, or at least pretend to.”

A ripple of laughter ran through the staff. The weight in your shoulders eased a little.

You gathered your things, stowing your datapads and instruments into your bag before joining a few familiar faces near the exit ramp.

“Finally,” Tima groaned, slinging her satchel over one shoulder. “If I have to disinfect one more bacta pump, I swear I’ll throw myself out an airlock.”

“You’ve been saying that for months,” another nurse teased. “Come on, we all know you’ll miss the place after a day.”

“Maybe. But tonight?” Tima grinned. “We’re hitting the city. Core Plaza — music, drinks, actual food that isn’t pre-packed protein mush."

“Count me in,” you said, smiling as you adjusted the strap of your bag. “I need to remember what fun looks like.”

“Good. We’ll meet at nineteen hundred at Dock District Line Two. Don’t you dare bail out.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” you replied. And for a fleeting moment, you felt something almost normal hum beneath your skin — laughter, friends, plans.

A life outside the endless hum of medscanners and wounded cries.

You turned, ready to head toward the lifts—

“Leaving already, Miss?”

His voice — smooth, calm, measured — hit you like a blaster shot you never saw coming.

For a heartbeat, you just stood there. The chatter of the hangar receded into a low hum as the realization you’d been pushing down since Felucia came roaring back up from the depths of your chest.

Your soulmate was standing less than five meters away.

Your mouth went dry.

“Ah—yes, General,” you managed, your voice catching somewhere between professional and breathless. You forced your gaze downward, pretending to adjust the strap of your bag. “Just… finishing up for the day.”

He nodded once, stepping closer — not enough to breach decorum, but enough that you could feel the quiet gravity that always seemed to follow him.

“You’ve earned it,” he said, hands clasped neatly behind his back. “You and your team did exemplary work during this campaign. The 501st and 212th owe you a great deal.”

You swallowed hard, throat tight. Don’t stare. Don’t stare—

But your eyes betrayed you anyway. The faint scruff along his jaw, the way the light caught in his hair, the lines of exhaustion at the corners of his eyes — all of it made your chest ache in that strange, familiar way.

The mark on your wrist tingled beneath your sleeve.

“Thank you, sir,” you said quickly, hoping your voice didn’t tremble as much as your hands did.

He gave a small, approving smile — Maker, that smile — and you almost forgot how to breathe.

“Will you be staying aboard during shore leave?” he asked conversationally.

You blinked, your brain stuttering over the words. “Uh—no, sir. I—some of us are going out tonight."

“Ah,” he said, a faint glimmer of amusement in his eyes. “A well-deserved reprieve, then. Try not to cause too much trouble.”

You huffed out something that might’ve been a laugh, or maybe a plea for the ground to open and swallow you whole. “Yes, sir.”

He inclined his head. “Enjoy your evening.”

Then he turned, the sweep of his cloak catching the light as he strode away — and you stood there, pulse hammering, heart in your throat, every nerve on fire.

****

The shuttle that had dropped you and your colleagues off disappeared into the traffic flow, leaving you on the edge of a bright, bustling thoroughfare. Neon banners rippled overhead, advertising clubs, cafés, and luxury stores. The sound of laughter spilled into the street — dozens of voices layered over the hum of engines, music bleeding from open doors.

You caught your reflection briefly in a passing window.

It was strange to see yourself like this — hair down, no uniform, no badge clipped to your chest. Just you.

You’d traded the standard-issue scrubs for something softer: a dress of deep navy, the fabric light and smooth against your skin, belted at the waist so it swayed with your every movement. The hem brushed just above your knees, teasing against your thighs when the city breeze caught it. You’d even dared to roll up the sleeves to your elbows — a small rebellion, one that exposed your wrist and, beneath it, the faint shadow of your soulmate mark.

For years, you’d hidden it under gloves, bandages, long sleeves. Now, the mark shimmered faintly under the streetlight, a small swirl of gold and ink — and you had to fight the urge to tug your sleeve down again.

Tima looped her arm through yours as your little group made its way down the steps of the plaza. “All right, you workaholics,” she said, her grin bright enough to rival the neon around you, “we’re going to The Hollow. Best music in the district, I swear by it.”

You smiled, though it felt small. “You say that every time.”

“Yeah, and I’m always right.”

She wasn’t, but you didn’t argue. You let her drag you through the crowd, your heels clicking against the polished floor as the sound of deep bass grew louder.

The club was already full when you arrived — a low-lit cavern of glass and color. Light panels shifted in rhythm with the music, soft violet melting into gold, gold into deep crimson. A holo-dancer shimmered above the bar, and the scent of citrus, sweat, and expensive liquor hung in the air.

You should’ve felt exhilarated. You wanted to.

But as your friends disappeared toward the dance floor, leaving behind a trail of laughter, you found yourself retreating toward the bar instead. The stool was cold beneath your legs. You ordered something light — something that wouldn’t dull your senses — and stared at the amber swirl in your glass.

The music thumped like a heartbeat through the soles of your feet. All around you, people were moving — bodies pressed close, laughter echoing in a dozen languages. The bass line seemed to vibrate in your ribs, but the noise only made your thoughts louder.

What would he say if he knew?

You took a slow sip, eyes unfocused on the dance floor.

Obi-Wan Kenobi.

You almost laughed — a small, broken sound swallowed by the music. Of all the people in the galaxy, it had to be him. The man who carried the weight of the Clone Wars on his shoulders and still managed to stand straighter than anyone you’d ever known. The man whose calm voice had steadied entire fleets — and whose hand, the one that had rested on your shoulder that night, had stopped the burning of your mark as if the universe itself had exhaled.

You stared down at your wrist. The skin tingled faintly now, like memory.

Would he be angry? you wondered. Disappointed? Would he think it’s a mistake?

Jedi didn’t have soulmates. They weren’t supposed to. Attachment was forbidden — love was forbidden. To him, this bond would be nothing short of a failure of the Code, a complication to be dismissed.

Maybe he’d pity you. Maybe he’d avoid you.

Maybe he already was?

You tilted your head back, looking at the lights blurring above. The low drone of conversation, the laughter, the smell of something sweet burning in a nearby vapor diffuser — all of it should have felt like freedom. But you only felt weight.

You tried to imagine what it would be like if things were different — if you could walk up to him without rank or uniform between you, tell him what you knew, what you felt. Tell him how your chest tightened whenever he walked into a room, how his voice had started to haunt the quiet spaces of your mind.

But no. That wasn’t how this galaxy worked. You were a medic, and he was a Jedi General.

Hours later, the night had softened around the edges.

You weren’t drunk — not really — but the world had gone pleasantly blurred, the hum of the club fading into a warm, muffled buzz. Your cheeks were flushed, your head light. Somewhere behind you, Tima was laughing at something Keira said, a sound that tangled with the pulsing rhythm of music and the shimmer of neon pouring through the glass.

You’d had… what, three drinks? Four? Enough to forget the war for a few hours, not enough to forget him.

When the room began to feel too small, the lights too bright, you excused yourself.

Keira tossed you her jacket — something short and sleek and dark, smelling faintly of spice perfume and smoke. You shrugged into it, tugging the collar close as you slipped through the back door.

The city air hit you like a balm — cool and dry, a whisper against your overheated skin.

Outside, Coruscant was quieter. The alley was narrow, wedged between two high-rises where a single flickering sign cast strips of blue and pink light across the wet duracrete. You could still hear the bass through the wall, a steady thrum beneath the hum of distant speeders.

You leaned back against the cool metal, exhaling slowly.

Finally — space.

You tilted your head back, eyes tracing the narrow cut of sky between the buildings, where the towers climbed forever and the stars were lost in the haze of light. You could almost pretend you were anywhere else.

The silence cracked — literally.

Glass shattered above you.

You barely had time to duck before something — someone — came crashing through the high window, shards raining down like glittering rain. A figure hit the ground hard just meters away, rolling to their feet in one fluid, desperate motion.

You froze, heart in your throat.

A second later, another shape followed — darker, heavier — vaulting through the broken window with a metallic hiss. The low growl of a vibroblade hummed through the air.

The first one, a bounty hunter by the look of the armor, turned fast, firing a blaster bolt that scorched the duracrete inches from your foot. You stumbled back against the wall, hands flying up instinctively.

“Maker—!”

The air burned with ozone as the shot ricocheted — deflected.

A flash of blue illuminated the alley.

A lightsaber.

“Hide!” the Jedi barked, his voice sharp, commanding.

You didn’t. You couldn’t. You were rooted to the spot, pulse hammering in your ears, the surreal realization dawning like slow lightning — you knew that voice.

He turned slightly, just enough for the light to catch his profile — the cut of his jaw, the reddish glint of his beard.

Obi-Wan.

Your body went completely cold.

He shouldn’t be here. He couldn’t be here.

The bounty hunter swung again — a desperate move — and Obi-Wan caught it on the flat of his saber, twisting, the hum of plasma colliding with metal filling the narrow space. He kicked the attacker back against the wall with a sharp grunt, disarming him in one clean motion.

The man slumped, out cold. Smoke curled lazily from the broken window above.

The silence that followed was deafening.

You were still staring when Obi-Wan turned to you. His chest rose and fell quickly, his eyes bright — sharper than you’d ever seen them in the calm of the Negotiator. The blue glow of the saber painted his features in light and shadow, and for a moment, he didn’t say anything.

Then, his tone softened — that same measured calm that always undid you.

“Are you hurt?”

You shook your head, though your chest was still pounding.

“Good.” He followed your gaze to the body slumped on the alley floor. “Don’t worry — he won’t be waking up any time soon.”

You swallowed hard, trying to keep your voice steady. “What was that?”

“That was a bounty hunter. He stole encrypted information from the Senate, which is why I was tasked with retrieving it.” He spoke as if it were the simplest thing in the galaxy, crouching briefly over the unconscious man to rifle through his pockets. A commlink and a data chip appeared in his hands, retrieved with the same precision he used on the battlefield.

When he straightened, your eyes caught it — a dark, spreading stain on his pants.

“General… you’re bleeding.”

He glanced down, expression calm, and gave a small wave. “It is nothing. Barely felt it.”

You huffed, incredulous. Of course, he was too proud to even consider asking for help.

“Nothing, my ass. Come on.”

Maybe it was the alcohol, or the lingering rush of adrenaline, but in a few determined steps, you closed the space between you and grabbed his arm. The sudden touch made him pause, eyes widening slightly.

“Where exactly are we going?” he asked, confusion threading his otherwise measured tone.

“You really think I’d let you bleed out?”

“You shouldn’t be worried about me. I have healers at the Temple.”

“Need I remind you,” you countered, voice sharp with frustration, “that the Temple is almost fifteen clicks from here? You’d never make it in time — not with blood actively leaving your body.”

He studied you for a moment, his calm veneer flickering ever so slightly.

You waved your hand toward the street, already calling a taxi and sending quick texts to your friends. “It’s your night out. You should be enjoying your free time,” Obi-Wan said, a note of reproach softening the edge of his words.

“My night off doesn’t include watching a Jedi General nearly pass out in an alley, thank you very much.”

He didn’t argue. He didn’t need to. The faint twinge of vulnerability beneath his composed exterior was all the acknowledgment you needed — and it only made your chest tighten further.

The taxi hummed beneath you as the city lights blurred past in streaks of neon. You kept your grip tight on Obi-Wan’s arm, guiding him into the seat with a firmness that left no room for argument. The hum of the engine, the occasional honk of speeders outside, and the faint scent of ozone from the city created a cocoon of sound around the two of you.

He settled into the seat, one arm resting casually on the backrest, but there was no mistaking the subtle tension in his shoulders — in him. He was hurt, yes, but he was still himself, still composed, still too self-aware for comfort.

“How was the club?”

You tensed, narrowing your eyes slightly, your voice clipped as you replied. “It was… fine. Nothing requiring your attention, General.”

His brow lifted. “‘Fine’? That’s it? Not a single detail about the music, the crowd, the… atmosphere?”

You pressed your lips together, letting a breath slip through instead of words. “General, it was okay. That’s all you need to know.”

He leaned back, eyes catching the flickering light of the dashboard. “Straight to business, then. That’s admirable.” His voice softened slightly, teasingly. “Though I would have hoped you’d at least enjoy yourself once in a while.”

You glanced out the window, feeling the heat rise to your cheeks. “I can enjoy myself after you’re not bleeding all over the taxi,” you muttered.

He made a soft, almost inaudible chuckle — one of those quiet laughs that only made your chest tighten further. “I see. You are determined to keep everything professional.”

“And you are determined to make that impossible,” you shot back, voice low, but your grip on his arm never wavered.

You turned your attention back to the window, staring at the blur of city streets. Professional. Keep it professional. You repeated it like a mantra, though every word of it felt impossible with him sitting mere inches away, your pulse hammering, and the faint heat of the mark on your wrist reminding you just how close fate had pulled you together.

The taxi glided on, quiet except for the low hum of the engine and the unspoken tension crackling like static in the air between you.

You weren’t sure if it was relief, fear, or something dangerously close to anticipation that made you keep your hand on his arm. But you would stay professional. You had to.

You stepped out first, your heels clicking against the polished durasteel floor as you approached the entrance. The guard at the checkpoint barely looked up until you rattled off your clearance code, your voice steady despite the lingering pulse of adrenaline.

“Chief (Y/N), medical division, clearance delta-seven-five-three. He’s with me.”

The guard’s eyes flicked from your badge to Obi-Wan, then back to you. A brief pause, then a nod. “Proceed.”

You exhaled through your nose — relief, maybe — and led the way inside. The door hissed open, and a rush of cold, recycled air swept over you, smelling faintly of antiseptic and ionized steel.

It was too bright. Too clean. Every sound echoed: the click of your heels, the faint rustle of his robes as he followed a few steps behind, the distant hum of bacta filtration units in the lower halls.

He moved quietly, but the weight of his presence filled the space between you. You could feel him — that steady calm he carried like a shield, a balance you’d admired more times than you cared to admit. And yet, tonight, there was something different. Something… human.

You reached the small examination bay and gestured to one of the chairs against the wall. “Sit,” you said, your tone automatic, professional — the kind you used when handling stubborn soldiers who thought a bacta plaster could fix everything.

Obi-Wan raised a brow but complied, lowering himself onto the chair with a faint wince he tried to disguise. The quiet sound made your chest tighten.

“I’ll need a few minutes,” you said, already moving toward the supply cabinet. “Try not to bleed on the floor while I’m gone.”

“Noted,” he replied dryly, and you didn’t need to look back to know there was a ghost of a smile tugging at his lips.

You pretended not to notice.

The sterile drawers clattered softly as you rummaged through them, pulling out gloves, antiseptic wipes, gauze rolls, and a medscanner. Your hands moved with mechanical precision — muscle memory from too many nights like this — but your mind refused to quiet.

You shouldn’t have brought him here. You shouldn’t be alone with him here. Not after what you’d realized, not after the mark had burned with that same aching warmth the moment you’d touched him.

You pulled on a fresh pair of gloves, the snap of latex echoing faintly in the silence, and turned back to him.

He was watching you.

Not with judgment, or amusement, but something softer — a quiet curiosity that made your heart skip painfully in your chest.

“Let’s see that wound,” you said, forcing your tone to remain clinical as you gestured for him to adjust his position.

The corner of his mouth curved slightly as he obeyed. “As you wish, Miss.”

You ignored the way his voice seemed to curl around your title, too smooth, too warm — and focused instead on the faint trail of blood that had soaked into the fabric of his pants.

You’d patch him up. You’d do your job. And then you’d forget this ever happened.

At least, that’s what you told yourself.

“To properly treat the wound,” you explained, forcing your tone professional, “I’ll need better access. If you could adjust your position.”

He raised an eyebrow, curious but compliant. “Do I have a choice?”

“Not really,” you said, firm, though your pulse betrayed you.

He eased himself slightly forward in the chair. You lowered yourself to the floor between his knees, careful to keep your movements precise and efficient — though your chest was conspicuously aware of the proximity, the brush of his robes against your forearms, the subtle warmth radiating from him.

“Sit still,” you instructed, your voice steady even as your hands trembled slightly when you pulled back the fabric to inspect the gash. It was deeper than you’d thought — the kind of cut that demanded stitches, not just a simple dressing.

“You’ll feel some discomfort,” you warned, dabbing carefully as the antiseptic seeped into the wound.

He hissed sharply.

“I thought Jedi were supposed to be strong,” you teased lightly, a small smirk tugging at your lips.

“Apparently, I underestimated the power of antiseptic—ah!”

He flinched, jerking slightly in the chair, and your hands immediately pulled back, hovering in the air as you studied him.

“Is it okay? Can I continue?” you asked, voice softer now, more measured.

“Yes,” he said through gritted teeth, though the faint edge of amusement lingered. “Just… finish it.”

“Are you sure?”

He gave a curt nod, eyes steady on yours.

You took a steadying breath and resumed your work, moving with deliberate precision. Surprisingly, despite the alcohol still tingling in your veins, your hands were steady, every motion careful and exact — as if your body had known exactly what to do all along.

The quiet rhythm of suturing, the slight tension of his leg beneath you, and the faint hum of the medbay around you created a world that existed solely in that narrow space between your bodies.

You didn’t need to look up to know — he was watching. That familiar, steady gaze of his, penetrating in a way that made your skin prickle and your pulse stutter.

“You're staring,” you said, finally managing to get the words out, voice tighter than you intended.

He lifted a brow, the faintest hint of amusement curling the edge of his lips.

“Simply admiring, Miss,” he said, his tone smooth and deliberately slow, each word hanging in the air between you.

You blinked, unsure whether to roll your eyes or melt where you were. “Admiring? My hands are practically inside your leg, General. It’s a little hard to be flattering in this position.”

“And yet,” he said, a teasing edge in his voice, “you somehow manage to be quite captivating.”

Heat flared in your cheeks, crawling down your neck. You tried to focus on the suturing, the antiseptic sting, the cool brush of latex against your fingers—anything to keep your mind from spiraling—but his words lodged in your chest like a stubborn stone.

“I’ll just blame this on the fact that you’ve lost some blood,” you muttered, forcing a small smirk, though your fingers lingered a second too long over the wound.

He returned your expression with a slow, infuriating smirk. That bastard, you thought, silently, as your pulse kicked up again.

“I must say, this dress is a perfect match for your eyes,” he said, voice low, smooth, and deliberate.

Oh Kriff, is he flirting with me? you thought, letting a small, private shiver run through you.

The cut of the fabric skimmed your shoulders and hugged your waist, the color catching the lights just right. It was daring, flattering, and, most importantly, hid the telltale flash of your soulmate mark beneath the long sleeves of Keira’s jacket.

You forced a small, polite smile, keeping your voice even.

“All done,” you murmured, the breath leaving your lungs like a quiet release.

He shifted on the chair, the motion slight but enough for his knee to graze your shoulder. The contact was fleeting, barely there, and yet it lingered. As you reached for a clean swab, your gaze caught on the raw skin across his knuckles — split, bruised, and swollen. A wound not from a lightsaber’s precision, but from something much more human.

“Does it hurt?”

“Not really.”

“General, spare me.” You rolled your eyes, voice thin with exhaustion as you soaked a cloth with antiseptic.

He leaned back, his tone lazy, teasing. “It doesn’t hurt, but I’ll admit — it’s not pleasant. Perhaps you could do something about that?”

“With pleasure,” you said evenly, though your pulse betrayed you.

“So you do enjoy seeing me like this?”

He hissed as the antiseptic met skin, and you couldn’t help the sharp flicker of satisfaction that came with it.

You focused on the slow, methodical rhythm of wiping away blood, of wrapping fresh bandages over old wounds. It was easier than acknowledging the ache in your chest — that quiet, useless ache that wished he didn’t have to bleed at all.

You hated this — the constant mending, the endless cycle of hurt and heal. You wished for him, for all of them, something better than the war’s hollow promise. A life measured in more than blaster fire and casualty reports.

“Is something the matter?” he asked quietly.

Yes, you thought. You.

You swallowed, keeping your eyes on his hand. “No. Everything is as it should be.”

His gaze sharpened, soft but unrelenting. “Now, who’s telling lies?”

Maker, why did he have to see through you like that? You tried to laugh it off, but the sound caught somewhere in your throat.

“It’s just—” You hesitated, biting your lip, the antiseptic pad trembling slightly between your fingers. “You’re wrong, sir.”

“Wrong about what?”

You looked up, finally meeting his eyes.

The blue of them was deep — impossibly so — the kind of blue that carried both the weight of oceans and the quiet fury of a coming storm. There was calm there, yes, but not peace. You could see it now — the exhaustion settled in the corners of his gaze, the kind that no amount of rest could ever soften. You’d seen that look in soldiers before, in men who’d stared too long into the void and learned to pretend it didn’t stare back.

And suddenly, the room felt too small for him — for the both of you. The soft hum of the lights, the faint buzz of the city through the windows, even the sterile scent of disinfectant — it all pressed in too closely. You could feel the pulse in your throat, the tight coil of something unspoken winding between your ribs.

Your fingers lingered against the bandage at his hand, the warmth of his skin bleeding through the thin barrier of your gloves. You should have moved away. You should have said something safe, something that would draw a clean line back to professionalism. But the words clawed their way out of you anyway, trembling and inevitable.

“I don’t like seeing you hurt,” you whispered, the confession leaving you like a prayer — quiet, unguarded, raw. Your throat felt tight, your voice breaking under the weight of its own truth. “I wish things were easier..”

For a long, breathless moment, neither of you moved.

He watched you as if you’d said something sacred — something forbidden. And though he said nothing, though the air between you remained still and quiet.. Like a heartbeat, echoing yours.

“You are far too kind,” he said quietly. The words felt heavier than they should have, low and deliberate, as though he meant each one. His voice was velvet—soft, measured—but there was something in it that cracked at the edges.

You didn’t move, couldn’t. The air between you seemed charged, thick with everything you shouldn’t be feeling.

He reached forward and placed his hand over yours.

It was a simple touch, chaste even—his palm warm against the back of your gloved hand—but the effect was devastating. Every nerve in your body lit up in answer, a sudden rush of warmth that crawled up your arm, into your chest, and down to where the mark burned beneath your sleeve. The air left your lungs in a sharp inhale you couldn’t quite hide.

You melted. You couldn’t help it. For one breathless, treacherous moment, you let yourself feel it—the safety of his touch, the quiet steadiness of him, the way the galaxy’s noise seemed to fade until there was only this. Only him.

And then—like cold water down your spine—you remembered.

You couldn’t have this.

Your breath hitched, and you pulled your hand back as if burned. You turned away, pretending to rearrange instruments that didn’t need arranging, desperate for something to do with your trembling hands.

You cleared your throat, forcing composure back into your tone. “You should rest, General. The bandages will hold for now, but come by the Med Bay in the morning so someone can change them.”

He didn’t speak at first. When he finally did, his voice was quiet. “Of course.”

You didn’t look at him, not even when he stood. The air felt thin, unsteady. You focused on the sound of his boots against the floor, on the faint rustle of his cloak as he moved toward the door.

****

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No one in the Corps spoke of soulmates. The few who did wore their longing like a bruise — visible only when the light hit them just right. You learned, quickly, that such things were a luxury, something softer people could afford to believe in. Not medics. Not soldiers. Not those who stitched the galaxy back together one broken piece at a time.

So you began to hide it.

Long sleeves became your armor, cuffs buttoned high, fabric pressed close to your skin. The mark itched sometimes — as if it resented being forgotten — but you ignored it, the same way you ignored the ache in your back, the sting of antiseptic on your hands.

Still, in the quiet hours before dawn, when the ward lights dimmed and the machines sighed their slow mechanical breaths, you’d find your fingers brushing against the outline of it through the cloth.

It pulsed faintly then, or maybe you only imagined it — a heartbeat out of sync with your own.

You’d close your eyes and wonder.

What if they were out there?

What if they'd already looked up at the same stars and thought of you?

It was a tender sort of ache — one you almost cherished. Until the day it wasn’t.

You remember it with startling clarity. A morning like any other, the mirror above the sink fogged with steam, the soft hiss of the fresher in the background. You caught sight of your wrist as you rolled your sleeves, and something in you broke quietly, like glass giving way under slow, steady pressure.

There was no reason for it — no sudden revelation, no heartbreak, no tragedy. Just a quiet knowing that some things the galaxy promised were never meant for you.

You studied the mark for a long while, tracing it once, twice, as if to memorize its shape before letting it fade into irrelevance.

Then you buttoned the cuff. Pulled your sleeve down.

That was the day you decided they didn’t exist.

That they never would.

…But the Force had other plans.

*****

Night had fallen over Felucia’s war-torn clearing, a heavy, humid darkness pressing in from all sides. The campfires cast flickering shadows across the mud and foliage, the smell of charred vegetation mixing with the metallic tang of blood.

You were moving constantly, tending to troopers whose wounds ranged from minor burns to deep lacerations, adrenaline keeping your hands steady even as your body screamed for rest. Your gloves were slick with sweat and grime, your scrubs sticking to your back, the rhythmic thrum of your pulse echoing in your ears.

A sudden unease prickled at the edge of your awareness — a subtle, almost instinctive feeling that something was wrong.

Your hand went to your comm, fingers trembling slightly. “Commander, report. What’s the situation?”

“Everything is under control, we oushed the last way to retreat but...Kenobi’s been injured,” Cody’s voice was tight, clipped, urgent.

The words hit you like a physical blow. Your stomach dropped, and you swallowed hard, gripping your medkit as if it were a lifeline. “What happened?”

“There was a skirmish on the northern ridge. He’s stable, but he needs proper treatment — now.”

The world narrowed. There was no hesitation, no thinking — only action. “Get him here. Bring him to one of the tents, immediately. I’ll handle him.”

“Copy that,” Cody said. “We’re on it.”

Your legs moved before your mind fully caught up. The troopers around you paused, sensing the sudden intensity in your voice, but didn’t question it. You barked out orders with crisp precision, clearing a space in one of the larger med tents, moving equipment and preparing trays. Every muscle in your body was taut with urgency, adrenaline masking exhaustion.

When they arrived, Obi-Wan was being supported by two clone troopers, his robes torn, one arm cradled carefully. He looked up as you rushed forward, calm in his expression despite the blood and dirt streaking his face, but you barely registered it — your focus was absolute.

His gaze met yours for a fleeting moment, sharp and assessing, and something in the way he relaxed slightly under your hands made your pulse hammer harder.

The tent flap rustled behind you as it settled into place, muffling the distant sounds of the camp. Inside, the air was thick with the metallic tang of blood and the sharp scent of antiseptic you’d brought along. Shadows from the lantern flickered across the canvas, casting everything in a wavering, uneasy light.

Obi-Wan sat on the cot, one hand clutching his side, robes torn and smeared with dirt and blood. A deep gash ran along his forearm, the skin jagged and dark, and your stomach tightened at the sight.

You set your medkit down, hands already shaking slightly from exhaustion and adrenaline. “I need to check your leg,” you said, voice steady though your pulse was hammering.

He flinched at your touch but didn’t move away. “Count to three before you—”

“No,” you interrupted, not waiting for him to finish. Your fingers found the thorn embedded deep in his thigh, and with a quick, practiced motion, you yanked it free. He gritted his teeth sharply, inhaling through his nose.

“You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?” he growled, jaw tight, though the corner of his lips twitched like he was trying to mask something else.

“A little.” you smirked, before snapping back to focus.

The tension between you was almost tangible — the adrenaline of the battle outside mixing with the rush of proximity, the way you couldn’t stop noticing the warmth of his skin under your fingers and the faint pulse of life you’d just disrupted.

You pressed a cloth to his arm, steadying him. “Hold still. If you move, I’ll have to start over,” you warned, voice softening slightly despite the edge.

You reached for another roll of gauze, your fingers brushing across the edge of his wrist.

And that’s when you saw it.

For a moment, everything inside you went still.

There, against the dim lamplight, peeking out from beneath the edge of his torn sleeve — was a mark. Small. Faint. But unmistakably familiar.

The same curve. The same ink-dark line that haunted your own wrist since before you could remember.

The air vanished from your lungs.

Your hands froze mid-motion, the strip of gauze slipping from your fingers to the floor. You blinked, once, twice, desperate to convince yourself you’d imagined it — that exhaustion, the blood, the haze of war had played tricks on your mind.

But it didn’t disappear. It was there. Real.

He was real.

A cold rush of panic surged through your chest, chased by a heat that climbed up your throat. You felt dizzy, as if gravity had shifted and left you off balance.

No.

No, no, no, this couldn’t be right.

You forced your eyes away, heart hammering so hard you thought he might hear it.

General Kenobi.

Of all people — calm, untouchable, perfect Jedi composure — the General.

Your soulmate.

Fuck.

“Are you all right?” His voice cut through the silence, calm but curious. He’d noticed the shift — the way your hands trembled just slightly, the air in the tent suddenly charged in a way neither of you could name.

You scrambled for composure, gripping the gauze with white-knuckled fingers. “Yes, sir,” you managed, your voice tight. “Just… tired.”

His gaze lingered a second too long, thoughtful, before he nodded. “Understandable. It’s been a long day.”

You nodded too, focusing on the wound, refusing to look at his wrist again. Every breath felt heavy, too slow, too loud.

He wasn’t supposed to exist.

For so long, you’d made peace with the idea that he didn’t — that whoever bore the same mark as yours was long gone, or never born at all. That maybe you were one of the unlucky ones the galaxy forgot to pair. You’d built your life around that quiet acceptance, tucked the idea away somewhere between duty and exhaustion, and learned to live without expecting more.

But now he was here.

Flesh and blood. Breathing. Bleeding.

Sitting right in front of you.

General Obi-Wan Kenobi — Jedi Master, negotiator, war hero, untouchable. The man whose name carried weight in every briefing, whose calm steadied entire battalions, whose voice was always composed, measured, impossible to read.

And on his wrist… your mark.

You could still see it when you closed your eyes — the identical pattern that had burned beneath your skin for days. It pulsed faintly now, as though aware, alive, responding to the space between you.

Your throat tightened. Your chest ached.

This wasn’t how you imagined it — no whispered confession in some quiet, peaceful place. No shared moment of recognition under soft light. Instead, there was blood on your hands, dirt on your knees, and the sound of war echoing just beyond the tent walls.

And he had no idea.

You forced your focus back to the bandage you were wrapping, willing your heartbeat to calm. The rational part of your mind screamed that it didn’t matter — he was a Jedi, sworn to detachment, to a life where connections like these had no place. He couldn’t be yours. Not really.

But the irrational part, the quiet ache beneath your ribs, whispered otherwise.

He was yours.

And that truth settled inside you like a secret you didn’t want but couldn’t let go of.

You finished tying off the last of the bandages, your fingers trembling just slightly. He exhaled slowly, his composure steady as always, and thanked you with a faint nod — utterly unaware that your entire world had just shifted around him.

When he finally left, you stood frozen in place, the lamplight flickering across the empty cot. The noise of the camp seeped back in — the hum of comms, the distant shouts of troopers, the soft rustle of canvas — and yet none of it seemed to reach you.

You looked down at your wrist, at the mark that had been there for years, and for the first time in your life, you almost wished it hadn’t.

****

The fires had burned low, the distant echoes of battle fading into the heavy hum of Felucia’s night. You sat on the edge of the camp, boots half-buried in the soft, damp earth, hands limp in your lap. The lantern light flickered weakly beside you, throwing long, trembling shadows across your face.

Everything in you felt hollow. Weightless and heavy all at once.

The sound of boots crunching over dirt reached you before the familiar voice did.

“Why the long face?”

You looked up. Cody stood over you, helmet tucked beneath his arm, a steaming cup of something vaguely resembling caf in his other hand. He looked exhausted — grime streaked across his jaw, armor scorched at the edges — but his eyes still carried that steady glint of concern.

“I…” you started, voice small, raw. The words caught in your throat. “I think I know who my soulmate is.”

That got his attention. His brows lifted just slightly. “Really?”

You nodded, staring down at the ground as if it might open up and swallow you whole. “Yeah.”

He took a slow sip of his drink, the faintest smirk tugging at his mouth.

“Well, who’s the lucky bastard?”

You lifted your gaze then, and when he saw the tears shimmering in your eyes, his grin faltered. The color drained from his face before you even spoke.

“It’s General Kenobi.”

For one suspended second, nothing moved. Then Cody inhaled sharply, choking on his drink. He spluttered and coughed, pounding his chest as steam rose from the cup he nearly dropped.

“You’re sure?” he rasped.

You laughed weakly, the sound brittle. “As sure as I can be when fate decides to pull the cruelest joke imaginable.”

Cody blinked, utterly speechless for once in his life. His gaze softened, worry replacing shock as he crouched beside you.

“Hey,” he said quietly, voice gentler now. “We’ll figure it out, yeah? Maybe… maybe it’s not what it looks like.”

You shook your head, tears spilling freely now, glinting in the low light. “No, Cody. It’s exactly what it looks like.”

The jungle’s hum filled the silence between you — that strange, living sound that seemed almost aware. And for the first time, you felt like the galaxy had played its hand in full.

He sighed, rubbing a hand over his face. “You just had to go for the one person who’s literally not allowed to have a soulmate.”

“Trust me,” you said bitterly, wiping your eyes. “That thought hadn’t escaped me.”

He huffed softly, setting the cup down beside you. “Well,” he muttered, “at least it’s not Yoda.”

“Not helping, Commander.”

“I’m sorry, mesh’la,” Cody said softly. He crouched down in front of you, helmet set aside, elbows resting on his knees. His voice was lower now, stripped of the usual edge of command. “It’s just—” He broke off, eyes flicking away as if searching for words in the mud between you. “Kriff. It’s a lot.”

You gave a humorless laugh, tilting your head back against the crate. “Yeah. No kidding.”

His gaze searched your face. “Are you okay?”

You let out a sharp, brittle breath that might have been a laugh but wasn’t. “No,” you admitted, pressing your palms against your eyes until the dim blue of Felucia’s night swirled behind your lids. “It’s a kriffing tragedy, Cody. An actual tragedy.”

He didn’t try to fill the silence that followed. He just stayed there, steady as always, the faint jungle hum rising around you both like a heartbeat.

After a long moment, he asked quietly, “Do you think he knows?”

Your hands dropped from your face. You shook your head, swallowing hard.

“No. It doesn’t look like it.” You stared at the ground, at the way your boots were caked in dirt and blood, at your trembling fingers. “And I don’t want him to. It’s best if it stays between just the two of us.”

Cody’s jaw tightened, his expression flickering from concern to something darker — protectiveness, maybe, or a hint of anger at the galaxy itself. He reached out, resting a gloved hand briefly on your knee, grounding you.

“All right,” he said quietly. “Just the two of us.”

****

Then Cody’s voice cut through the haze. “Up and at ’em, Doc! Big day ahead!”

You groaned into your pillow. “Define big.”

“The kind where the Commander doesn’t want to have to drag his favorite medic to the bridge.”

You cracked one eye open, groaning louder. “You wouldn’t.”

“Oh, I would,” Cody said, his tone far too cheerful for someone who’d probably been up since dawn. “We’ve got a full schedule — prep, simulation, and Kenobi wants everyone briefed within the hour.”

You threw an arm over your face. “Tell Kenobi I died.”

Cody’s laugh carried through the door. “Nice try. Come on, you survived yelling at him. You can survive one more day.”

You mumbled something incoherent but swung your legs out of bed anyway, every muscle protesting. The room felt cold, your head heavy — but as you rubbed at your eyes and blinked toward the door, you couldn’t help the faint smile tugging at your lips.

Twelve minutes later, you were walking down the corridor beside Cody, hair hastily tied back, medbay scrubs wrinkled and a datapad clutched loosely in your hand. You were awake in the technical sense — eyes open, feet moving — but your brain was several systems behind, struggling to catch up.

The command center was already humming when you arrived. Officers, troopers, and techs filled the space, the soft hum of holo-displays mingling with quiet voices and the rhythmic beeping of consoles. You slipped in at the back, instinctively finding a place against the wall, out of the way.

Cody moved ahead, posture snapping to attention as he joined General Kenobi near the holotable. The two of them spoke in low tones, their words blending into the background hum.

You stifled a yawn behind your hand and tried to focus on the scrolling tactical readouts, but your eyes were heavy, the lines of data blurring into nothing. You told yourself to stay alert — that this was important, that you needed to listen — yet all you could think about was the faint ache behind your eyes and the way your body still remembered sleep.

Then you felt it.

That pull again — subtle, quiet, but unmistakable. Like a thread had been tugged somewhere inside your chest. You glanced up before you could stop yourself.

Across the room, Obi-Wan Kenobi stood tall beside Cody, the blue glow of the holomap painting soft light over his features. His voice carried steady and calm as he spoke to the officers, but when his gaze flicked toward you — just for a moment — the rest of the room seemed to fade.

Before you could drown in this fleeting moment, you quickly looked to the side, exhaling. Don’t look, don’t look, don’t loo—

The mark on your wrist gave a faint, treacherous pulse, as if mocking your attempt at composure.

Shit.

But the warmth lingered.

And even without looking, you knew — he hadn’t looked away yet.

“Miss?”

You froze. Every head turned toward you. The hum of the holoprojector seemed suddenly deafening.

You blinked, straightening. “...Yes?”

Obi-Wan’s eyes were fixed on you with patient expectation that somehow made it worse. “Your medical readiness report for the 212th Battalion, please.”

“Oh. Right.” You fumbled with the datapad, heart pounding as you scrolled through files. “The 212th is at ninety-two percent readiness. The drop from last week’s ninety-six is due to fatigue, minor concussions, and repetitive strain injuries. I recommend at least forty-eight hours of rest before deployment.”

The General’s brow furrowed slightly. “Forty-eight hours?”

You nodded, swallowing hard. “Yes, sir.”

“I’m afraid that’s not possible,” he said calmly. “The situation on Felucia is escalating. We’ll need the men ready within twelve.”

You blinked. “Twelve hours? That’s— General, that’s not enough time for proper recovery. You’ll have half the unit running on fumes!”

“The men are trained for this,” Obi-Wan countered, his voice cool but firm. “They know what’s required of them.”

“And you think that means they’re invincible?” The words were out before you could stop them. “Because they’re not. You push them past their limit, they break— they die.”

A murmur rippled through the room. Cody’s eyes flicked between you both, tense, silent.

Obi-Wan’s composure held — but his jaw tightened, just slightly. “I assure you, I do not take my men’s welfare lightly. But this war doesn’t wait for us to recover from exhaustion.”

“Maybe it should,” you shot back. “Maybe it’s your job to make sure the men under your command survive it.”

Something in his expression shifted — not anger, but the faintest flash of something sharper, something almost… personal.

“And perhaps,” he said slowly, “you should remember your position before you presume to tell me mine.”

The air left the room. Every clone and officer went absolutely still.

Your pulse thundered in your ears, but you didn’t back down. “With all due respect, General, my position is exactly why I am telling you this. If I thought for one second that you didn’t care about your men, I wouldn’t waste my breath. But I’ve seen the reports, I’ve patched up the aftermath, and I won’t stand by while this happens again.”

For a long, unbearable moment, the two of you stared each other down — the soft hum of the holotable the only sound between you.

Then Obi-Wan drew a slow breath. “Very well,” he said finally, voice quiet, almost unreadable. “Forty-eight hours. Make sure it counts.”

You blinked, startled by the shift.

He gave a curt nod to Cody, then turned back to the map as though nothing had happened.

****

You left the command center with your palms sweating and your head ringing, the world tilting for a half-beat before you forced yourself to march toward the medbay. The corridor lights blurred into streaks; you could still feel the echo of Obi-Wan’s voice like a hand against your ribs. By the time you pushed through the medbay doors, the sterile air and the steady beeps of machines should have been calming. They weren’t.

The silence wasn’t peaceful — it pressed in, heavy and humming. The steady beeps of monitors filled the space where voices had been, and for the first time in hours, you let yourself think.

Maker. What had you done?

You’d snapped at a Jedi. In front of the entire command staff. Again.

You pressed the heel of your hand to your forehead, groaning softly. The scene replayed in your mind in perfect detail: the steady calm of his voice, the faint narrowing of his eyes, the way his composure never cracked, not even when yours did.

He hadn’t yelled. He hadn’t even raised his tone. But somehow, arguing with him had felt like standing in a storm — your words pulled out of you by something stronger, something you couldn’t quite name.

And then there was that other thing.

The mark.

You looked down at your wrist, the faint pattern beneath your skin still warm. It had flared the moment he’d turned toward you — when his gaze had found yours across the table, sharp and unshakable.

It had to be coincidence. It had to.

There was no way — absolutely no way — that your soulmate could be General Kenobi.

You snorted quietly to yourself, shaking your head. “Ridiculous,” you muttered under your breath. “Completely absurd. He’s a Jedi. They don’t even— they don’t do that.”

You turned back to your desk, forcing yourself to focus on something tangible — reports, charts, anything that wasn’t the memory of blue eyes studying you with unsettling intensity.

Still, the thought wouldn’t leave.

What if—?

You shut it down immediately. No. No, you refused to entertain that idea. He was your superior officer. A war hero. A Jedi. The last person in the galaxy who could ever be tied to you by something as personal as a soulmark.

One of the med-bay assistants, a young woman with a quick smile and nervous hands, glanced up from a stack of bandage kits when you dropped into a chair. Her face was sympathetic, but there was anxiety there too — the kind that lives in people who know the rules better than they know how to break them.

“You were loud out there,” she said quietly, folding a fresh gauze. “You should be careful. Those are important people. You can’t afford to—” She faltered, looking for the right word. “You can’t afford to offend the wrong person.”

“I don’t care about offending the wrong person,” you said, raw and honest. “I care about keeping the men who walk through this bay alive long enough to see their next sunrise.”

Her brows knit. “But—he’s General Kenobi. He—”

“He’s a man with orders,” you cut in, softer now. “So are the men he commands. If I have to risk my position to make sure half a platoon doesn’t get sent back into the field like a pile of broken parts, then so be it.”

The assistant’s hands stilled around the gauze. “You know they could report you. You could be reprimanded. Transferred.”

“You think I don’t know that?” Your voice dropped; exhaustion edged it raw. “Look, I’ve seen what too-few hours and too-much pride do to a soldier. You patch a body and send it back out and you might as well be handing someone a funeral program.”

“You’re reckless,” she said at last, but without the bite you’d heard before. “Just… try not to get us all court-martialed in the process.”

“And where’s the fun in that?”

Your commlink buzzed sharply on the counter, making you jump.

You fumbled to answer it. “Medbay, Head Medic speaking—”

“Why aren’t you in the hangar?” Cody’s voice came through, clipped and dry, though there was something off beneath the usual calm.

You blinked. “The hangar? Commander, I wasn’t— I didn’t get an assignment.”

“Then consider this one,” he interrupted. “Come on, mesh’la. Don’t keep the boys waiting.”

Before you could ask what he meant, the line went dead.

You stared at the comm for half a heartbeat, confusion rising fast. “What in the—”

The Med Bay door slid open. Two troopers in 212th armor were already there, stance brisk and expectant.

“Miss,” one of them said. “We’ve been ordered to escort you to the hangar. Bring a medkit.”

Something in his tone — that quick, practiced urgency — sent a spike of cold adrenaline through your veins. You spared your assistant a glance but she only shrugged her shoulders.

“Is someone hurt?” you asked, already reaching for your equipment.

Neither of them answered, at least not directly. “Just grab the kit, ma’am.”

That was all it took. Your mind started spinning through possibilities before you even realized you were moving — shoving vials into your field pack, slinging it over your shoulder, fingers trembling slightly as you ran through dark scenarios in your head.

Blaster malfunction during simulation? Training accident?

Cody’s hurt—

Your chest tightened at the thought, feet pounding against the deck as you followed the troopers through the corridor. The familiar mechanical hum of the Negotiator felt too quiet, too calm, the kind of silence that came right before the worst kind of news.

Your boots hit the hangar floor moments later. The sharp tang of fuel and metal filled your lungs. Ships were lined and ready, engines humming — but you couldn’t see any smoke, no chaos, no emergency crews.

You scanned the space, breath quick and shallow.

Nothing.

Your stomach dropped.

“Commander?” you called, your voice tight, almost swallowed by the echoing clang of the hangar. “Where’s the casualty?”

The air smelled of fuel and metal, hot and sharp from the gunships being prepped for launch. Troopers moved with purpose around you, loading crates and checking gear — yet the way Cody turned toward you, the faint twitch at the corner of his mouth, didn’t fit the chaos.

“Not here,” he said evenly, “and not right now. Now get onboard. You’re coming with us.”

You blinked, half in disbelief, half in dawning horror. “Wait—what?”

Before you could take a step back, his hand was on your elbow, steering you toward the waiting LAAT gunship.

“Cody, what are you—”

“General’s orders,” he cut in, his tone maddeningly casual. “You’re stationed at the front lines with the 501st medics.”

Your feet hit the deck hard as you dug your heels in. “What? Since when?!”

“Since about two minutes ago,” he said with a shrug, tightening his grip when you tried to twist away. “Now come on, Doc. Let’s not make a scene.”

“I swear, if this is some kind of twisted joke—”

He didn’t even slow down. “And before you say something you’ll regret, this wasn’t my idea.” His grin widened as he half-dragged you toward the ramp. “So suck it up, sit that pretty face down, and pretend you’re thrilled to be here.”

“Cody, I’m serious, I’m going to throw up—”

“Fine by me, aim for the floor.”

Your boots screeched against the floor, but it didn’t matter. He was stronger, and determined, and in the next breath you were stumbling up the gunship ramp, the hum of the repulsorlifts rising beneath your feet. The air inside was stifling — the faint vibration of the engines, the whirring hydraulics, the metallic tang of oil and ozone all merging into a single, overwhelming rush.

You turned to glare at him, breathless and indignant. “This is not how consent works, Commander.”

Cody only chuckled, fastening his helmet as the gunship doors sealed shut with a hiss, drowning out the hangar noise. “Welcome to the front, Doc.”

The deck rumbled beneath you as the LAAT lifted, the world outside blurring into streaks of light. You slumped into the nearest seat, your medkit clattering at your feet.

Your pulse was racing — part anger, part adrenaline, part something you didn’t want to name.

Then, across the gunship’s narrow hold, you caught sight of a familiar figure.

General Kenobi.

“Welcome, Miss, glad you made it.” The faintest smile curved his lips when your eyes met.

You gave him a false grin, hoping that he could see the daggers in your stare.

You’re so dead, Kenobi. Just wait until I get my hands on you—

You tore your gaze away, muttering under your breath, “I really hate you right now, Cody.”

He chuckled through his helmet coms. “We both know it’s not true, Doc.”

And Maker, was he right.

******

The LAAT pitched violently as it cut through the humid air of Felucia, the ship’s engines groaning under the strain. Every jolt sent your stomach flipping, your medkit bouncing against your side. The humidity from the planet seeped through the hull, heavy and oppressive, making the already cramped space feel like a furnace.

Troopers gripped rails or crouched low, bracing for the inevitable. You gripped the edge of your seat with both hands, knuckles white, medkit pressed to your thigh like a talisman.

The hull groaned, dust and debris kicked up in clouds around the skids, and Felucia’s dense jungle pressed against the edges of the clearing like it had been waiting for you. The ship shuddered, tilting, then righted itself, and you lurched forward, scrambling to stay upright.

“Stay put!” Cody barked, grabbing your arm to steady you as the ramp lowered. The wind and humidity hit in one immediate, oppressive wave, making you gag just a little.

“Move, Doc!” a trooper shouted from the doorway. “Medics are being set up at grid two!”

You nodded, still trying to catch your breath, and slung the medkit over your shoulder. Every instinct in your body screamed to run, to find the wounded, to patch up anyone before the battle could claim them.

You sprinted toward the designated grid, boots sinking into the soft, damp soil. The jungle around you was alive with noise — the distant thrum of blaster fire, the sharp crack of ion blasts, and the screams of droids falling. Bright flashes of green and red light pierced the foliage as you navigated the uneven terrain, adrenaline pushing exhaustion into the background.

Somewhere up ahead, the other medics were moving quickly, setting up triage stations. You ducked under a low-hanging branch and cursed softly under your breath — Felucia’s jungle was merciless, twisting around every step, turning every sprint into a battle of its own.

You skidded to a stop at the edge of the makeshift triage zone, medkit bouncing against your hip, mud caking your boots.

A clone in white-and-blue armor was crouched behind a fallen support beam, efficiently loading his blaster with mechanical precision. His helmet’s visor reflected the flickering light of distant blaster fire.

“You Kix?” you asked, trying to keep your voice calm but failing miserably.

“501st medic,” he confirmed without looking up, snapping the magazine into place. “And you must be the Negotiator’s medic. Quick briefing — we’re moving into the northern sector. Heavy droid patrols. Medics stay close, cover each other, triage points are mobile. Any questions?”

You opened your mouth, but all you could think about was the jungle, the noise, the impossible heat. “I… uh… no. Got it.”

He finally looked at you, visor tilting slightly. “Can you run?”

“Yeah… why?”

Kix’s helmeted head tilted as he pointed toward the thick tangle of Felucia’s jungle. “Because we’re going in there. I’ll cover you.”

“WHAT?!”

****

Blaster bolts stitched through the undergrowth, illuminating the chaos in quick, jagged flashes. You moved as fast as your exhaustion would allow, medkit clanging against your side, adrenaline surging to every limb.

Kix was already ahead, pulling a trooper free from a smoldering patch of underbrush, dragging him toward a temporary triage point that barely qualified as safe. You followed, knees scraping against roots, hands steadying the injured, hearts pounding in unison.

There were no blankets, no clean sheets, no gentle beeping machines — only dirt, mud, and the low growl of distant droids.

Your hands moved almost automatically, checking for pulses, pressure points, dressing deep burns, tying makeshift bandages with whatever material was on hand. There was no time for soft reassurances, no whispered comforts. A soldier groaned beneath your fingers, sweat and blood mixing into a grim sheen, and you murmured instructions instead of words of comfort.

The contrast was stark, almost cruel, in your mind. The medbay had been sterile, pristine, almost detached. The air had smelled of antiseptic, and machines hummed a constant, predictable rhythm. Here, on the front lines, the world was raw. Uncontrolled. Alive. Every second carried weight — the weight of survival, the heat of burning debris, the ragged gasps of men and women who might not make it to the next second.

Another trooper staggered into view, his leg mangled by an unseen blast. You grabbed his arm, pulling him from the fire with a grunt, your arms straining under the weight of what felt like the world itself. Every movement was calculated, practiced, precise. There was no time for fear, no time for hesitation — only action, only keeping them alive long enough for Kix and the others to stabilize them.

But there was no time. No time for questions. No time for hesitations. Only the fire, the injured, the smoke, and the ceaseless, unrelenting rhythm of survival.

You adjusted the bandage, glanced up, and saw the blaze reflecting across Kix’s helmet. And somehow, through all the chaos, you moved forward again.

taglist: open!

You were elbow-deep in a scanner calibration, muttering under your breath, when the doors hissed open.

“General Kenobi,” you called, voice clipped, trying not to sound frantic.

And of course, he decided to arrive at the worst possible time.

He stepped in with that effortless composure, cape brushing lightly against the floor, cloak folding just so around his shoulders.

"I'm here for the check up as you requested."

You froze for just a heartbeat — too many things going at once, too many tasks left unfinished. “Sir… you—oh, not—” Your words trailed off into frantic gesturing as you tried to clear space on a cluttered counter. Tubes, scanners, and stray tools threatened to topple over with every hurried step you took.

“I—” Obi-Wan started, raising a hand. “Perhaps I could come back some other time?"

“No!” you snapped, spinning to face him, cheeks hot. “You are not leaving! You are the last person on the list. I will not let you walk out of here without this done!”

His blue eyes widened ever so slightly at your intensity, the calm veneer slipping for the briefest instant. “Miss—”

“No excuses, General.” Your voice was sharp, but underneath it was pure determination. You stomped a foot, heart hammering, and shoved a pile of datapads aside. “You will stay. Right now. I don’t care if the galaxy is falling apart, you are not leaving!”

The room fell into silence. Even the machines seemed to pause. Obi-Wan, momentarily disarmed by your sudden authority, took a careful step back, evaluating.

“Very well,” he said finally, his voice regaining its smooth composure, though the faintest trace of amusement lingered at the edges. “Can I at least help you?"

"No, just take a seat and I'll be with you right away."

You exhaled, relief and lingering adrenaline colliding in your chest.

He inclined his head with a polite nod, settling onto the examination cot with the grace of someone unused to being rushed, though there was a flicker in his eyes — curiosity? Wariness? You couldn’t tell.

Minutes later, you reappeared at his side with a fresh pair of gloves, tugging them on with a snap that betrayed both your frustration and your fatigue. Stray strands of hair had slipped from your bun, tickling your temple, and the collar of your uniform was wrinkled from hours of use. You didn’t bother fixing any of it. You couldn’t.

“Alright,” you murmured, setting a tray of vials and tools on the small table beside him. Your voice carried the clipped tone of someone running on dwindling patience. “This won’t take long.”

Obi-Wan sat with a poise that was infuriatingly unshaken, cloak folded neatly at his side. His blue eyes followed you with quiet amusement as you prepped the needle. “You sound like you’re trying to convince yourself rather than me.”

You didn’t answer. The sting of antiseptic filled the air, sharp and sterile, as you swabbed the inside of his arm. The warmth of his skin beneath your gloved fingers startled you — alive and steady.

He didn’t flinch when you slid the needle in, blood rising rich and dark into the vial. He only kept talking, his voice carrying that smooth, almost absentminded cadence. “I imagine this is hardly the most exciting part of your work. Or do you thrive on collecting blood samples from reluctant Jedi?”

You exhaled a humorless huff, focusing on changing vials. “I thrive on people not collapsing in the middle of a campaign.”

“Practical,” he said lightly, as though you hadn’t just barked at him in a corridor hours earlier.

When you moved to check his pupils, you leaned in closer, lifting a small penlight. The world shrank to the cool sweep of his breath and the sharp intensity of his gaze as you directed him to look left, then right.

For anyone else, he would have looked perfectly composed. But you saw it. The faint shadow of fatigue under his eyes, the tightness in his jaw when the light shifted, the way his shoulders held tension even in stillness. Stress written in the smallest places, hidden where no one else bothered to look.

“Hmm.” You clicked the light off, jotting a note onto your datapad.

“Something concerning?” he asked, tone still easy, as though this were small talk at a Senate reception rather than a medical examination.

“Not… concerning,” you admitted slowly, pulling the gloves off with a snap. “But you don’t get enough rest. Do you?”

Obi-Wan’s lips quirked in the faintest smile, one that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Rest is a luxury in times like these.”

You adjusted the datapad in your hand, scrolling to the standard follow-up questions. “Any symptoms I should know about? Nausea? Back or joint pain? Headaches?”

He considered for a moment, one hand resting lightly on his knee. “Headaches,” he admitted at last, though his tone carried a wry edge. “But for… other reasons.”

Your brows drew together. “Other reasons?”

“Yes.” His gaze flicked away briefly, as if the thought amused and exasperated him all at once. “Anakin.”

You blinked, caught off guard. “General Skywalker?” you asked, just to be clear. “He seems like a good leader.”

“Oh, he is,” Obi-Wan said smoothly, a faint smile tugging at his lips. “When he’s quiet.”

You pressed your lips together, trying — and failing — not to laugh. The sound that escaped you was soft, unexpected, but genuine. He looked at you then, as if weighing your reaction, and the smallest spark of humor lit his tired eyes.

“Forgive me for asking,” he began, voice even, “but why is this check-up so vital that it could not wait? Surely the galaxy would not fall apart if I delayed a day or two.”

You paused, setting the vials carefully into their case. “It isn’t about the galaxy falling apart, General. It’s about you not falling apart.”

His brows lifted, just a fraction.

You straightened, folding your arms with the datapad pressed against your chest. “Every soldier, every officer, every being on this ship has to go through these examinations every so often. It’s required because we need to know what we’re working with. What’s strong. What’s fragile. What needs attention before it breaks down.”

He tilted his head, the corners of his mouth twitching in the faintest ghost of amusement.

“And unless this war ends tomorrow,” you continued, meeting his eyes without flinching, “you’re subject to the same rules as everyone else. Jedi General or not.”

For a moment, the only sound was the soft hum of the medbay machines. Then the General exhaled, a quiet huff that was not quite a laugh but close enough.

"And what about you?”

You blinked, looking up. “Me?”

“Yes,” he said, his tone maddeningly casual. “These examinations — surely you’re not exempt from them. Have you had yours?”

The question caught you off guard, enough that your fingers stilled on the datapad. “That’s not important,” you said quickly, already turning toward the counter to tidy the instruments.

“Not important?” There was the faintest lilt of amusement in his voice, the kind that made you want to both roll your eyes and smile.

You shook your head, refusing to meet his gaze. “My job is to keep the rest of you on your feet, General. I’m fine.”

For a moment, the room felt quieter, the hum of the medbay sharper in your ears. You felt his eyes on you, steady and far too perceptive, before he finally spoke again.

“Am I dismissed?” he asked at last, his tone courteous but carrying that subtle undercurrent of command.

“Yes,” you muttered, still focused on the datapad, unwilling to meet his gaze. “Forgive me for wasting your time.”

There was a pause — then his voice, low and faintly amused. “You did no such thing. After all, I was the one who dismissed the importance of this procedure.”

You bit the inside of your cheek, still refusing to look up.

You knew he wanted to tell you something. You could feel it.

"Is there anything else that I can help you with, General?"

A moment of silence, then—

“No, Miss," his voice was edged with something heavy. "Thank you."

He took his things and left.

******

The cantina was buzzing with the usual evening chatter when you slipped inside, tray in hand. You spotted Cody easily — broad-shouldered, posture straight even when he was off-duty — and made your way toward the table where he sat with Waxer and Boil.

The two troopers were already laughing about something, shoulders bumping as if they shared a private joke. Cody, by contrast, looked like the embodiment of a long sigh, one hand braced against his temple as though trying to tune them out.

“Doc!” Boil greeted you cheerfully, pulling a chair out with his boot. “You missed it — we were just telling Cody what we heard in the corridor.”

Your stomach sank. Oh no.

Waxer leaned in, grinning ear to ear. “Apparently, you roasted the General. And lived to tell the tale.”

Boil let out a bark of laughter. “Whole ship’s talking about it.”

You dropped into the seat, face warming as you muttered, “Maker save me.”

“Too late,” Waxer said, grinning like a man who’d just found his new favorite story.

Boil raised his cup in salute. “Next time, maybe tell him to polish his boots, too.”

You groaned and buried your face in your hands, though laughter bubbled up despite yourself. “You’re impossible. Both of you.”

Cody’s chuckle was low, though his expression didn’t carry quite the same amusement as his men’s. “You’ll have to forgive them,” he said dryly. “They don’t often get the chance to laugh at the General’s expense.”

“Neither do you, Commander."

When Waxer and Boil finally wandered off toward the sabacc tables, still chuckling about “Doc scaring the Jedi,” Cody lingered. You stretched your hands over the empty cup in front of you, staring at the faint swirl of caf residue at the bottom as if it could anchor your restless mind.

“Doc.” His voice was low, steady — the kind he only used when he wanted you to actually listen.

You glanced up, and the look in his eyes was enough to still the half-formed protest on your tongue.

“You’ve been on your feet for more than twelve hours,” he said, arms folded over his chest, every bit the commander now. “When was the last time you slept?”

You fidgeted with your datapad, pretending to check something. “I don’t know. Yesterday? Maybe.”

Cody exhaled through his nose, sharp and disapproving. “You’re not doing yourself — or anyone else — any favors by running on fumes. Go get some rest.”

“I’ll be fine—”

“No,” he interrupted, voice firm but not unkind. “You won’t. You’re not a droid. You keep pushing like this and you’ll end up in one of your own beds instead of treating the rest of us.”

You pressed your lips together, the sting of truth too close. And then—heat. A sharp, burning pulse seared across your wrist, flaring up so sudden you nearly hissed out loud. Your heart skipped; the tug deep in your chest grew insistent, impossible to ignore this time.

You hissed, grabbing your wrist.

“What is it?" he asked, leaning closer.

"I don't know, it just started to hurt."

"How bad?"

"Nothing I cannot manage, Commander." you gave him your best reassuring smile. He had enough on his plate already, you didn't want him to worry about you because your stupid soulmate mark was going crazy.

"Cody."

Your head snapped up before you could stop yourself.

Obi-Wan Kenobi stood a few paces away, his composure radiating like he had not just nearly driven you to madness hours ago.

And the mark on your wrist burned hotter than ever.

“General.”

The word left Cody’s mouth with crisp precision, his spine snapping straight, every trace of casual ease vanishing. In a blink, the man who had just been scolding you like a concerned brother was gone, replaced by the Commander of the 212th — sharp, disciplined, unreadable.

“I was just assisting,” he added smoothly, as though nothing at all had been amiss a heartbeat ago.

You forced yourself to stand a little straighter too, though your pulse was still stuttering in your veins, the heat of the mark gnawing at your composure.

“New orders just came in,” Obi-Wan said, his voice calm but carrying that unmistakable weight of urgency. “We need to run a simulation before the upcoming battle. Grievous’s fleet has just landed near Felucia.”

Cody’s jaw tightened, the faintest shift in his stance betraying the gears already turning in his head. “Understood, General. I’ll have the men prepped and ready.”

You sat frozen for a moment, the words sinking in like ice water. Another battle. Another wave of casualties. The kind of campaign that turned your medbay into a battlefield of its own.

Your fingers curled against your datapad, knuckles white. Felucia. Maker, that planet chews people alive.

The heat at your wrist surged again — wild, insistent — as though your soulmark had its own opinion about him standing this close to you, speaking with that measured composure even as the galaxy threatened to break. You swallowed hard, willing your hands steady.

Obi-Wan’s gaze flicked to you then, just for an instant, and you thought you saw something soften there — a flicker of concern, or recognition, before he turned back to Cody.

“I'll take it from here, please contact Anakin's fleet and tell them to prepare their troops."

"Sir, yes sir." he saluted him and walked away, putting his helmet on.

Then — unexpectedly, almost gently — Obi-Wan’s hand came to rest on your shoulder.

The heat vanished.

Just like that, the burning mark that had plagued you for days went still, quiet, as if soothed into silence by the mere weight of his touch. Relief swept through you so sudden your knees nearly buckled.

What the hell?

His hand lingered just long enough to guide you toward the corridor, steadying your steps as you left the cantina behind. The hum of the ship seemed softer here, farther from the noise and laughter, but the weight of the moment pressed in anyway.

You trailed slightly behind him, hands clasped awkwardly in front of you, glancing down at the floor every few steps. Words failed you — you were perfectly capable of barking orders, giving instructions, and managing panicked clones, but normal conversation outside the Medical Wing? That was a battlefield you had yet to learn to navigate.

“So…” you started, voice small and uncertain. “The simulation… Felucia… w-will the Med Bay need to—”

Obi-Wan’s head tilted slightly, not impatient, just curious. “The Medical Wing will be prepared. I wanted to ensure you were able to rest first. You’ve been on your feet far too long.”

Your fingers fidgeted with the edge of your sleeve. “I… I can handle it. We’ve got everything under control. Mostly.”

“Mostly,” he repeated, a faint smile tugging at his lips, but his gaze softened as it met yours. “That is what concerns me.”

The corridor stretched ahead, long and humming with the ship’s lifeblood. You walked side by side in silence, your chest still warm from the mark’s earlier flare, your nerves tangled, and yet — somehow — safe under the calm of his presence.

By the time you reached your quarters, your awkwardness had turned into a quiet tension, the kind that hinted at unspoken questions neither of you were quite ready to voice.

Obi-Wan paused at the door, offering a small nod. “Rest, you’ve earned it.”

“Was that an order?"

"It will be if I see you anywhere on the ship without getting at least 6 hours of sleep."

"6 hours of sleep sounds like a joke." you snarked.

"I am aware, unfortunately I am very serious about this."

"Of course, General. Thank you." you nodded. He did the same, with a smile forming on his handsome face.

Ugh, stop it!

"You're very welcome, Miss."

You walked into your quarters, the door hissing behind you as it closed, your back colliding with the smooth surface. Your head fell backwards with a soft thud, and you let yourself close your eyes, still having his image in front of your eyes.

You exhaled, heading for the bed when a sharp pain followed by a choked groan escaped you. You quickly rolled up your sleeve and parted lips in shock, staring at the angry red skin all over the mark. Your fingers, grazed over the soft surface and you winced because of how sensitive it was.

Kriff, why is it happening? Why can't it just stop like it did when he touched yo—

Oh.

Oh no.

"No, you're delusional." you shook your head. "You're just sleep deprived. That's it. There's no way, he's—"

You found yourself standing in front of the mirror, one hand braced against the sink, the other clutching your wrist as if you could will the skin to explain itself. The reflection staring back at you looked nothing like the calm, collected medic you were hours ago — hair loose from its tie, dark circles smudged beneath your eyes, and that damned mark glowing faintly under the low lights of your quarters.

It didn’t make any sense.

You’d always believed the mark was a tether — that whenever it acted up, it was because somewhere out there your soulmate was feeling something too. An echo. A pulse between two halves. For days now, your wrist had been itching, burning, pulsing with that hot, unyielding sensation that spread through your chest with every breath you took. You’d told yourself it was natural. That this was just how the bond worked. That when the right person came near, the mark would hurt until it found its match.

But you hadn’t been prepared for the relief.

Not like this.

It wasn’t a kiss, or a hand clasped in yours, or a whisper of destiny. It was just a hand — steady, gloved, resting lightly on your shoulder. A gesture of concern from your supervisor. Your Jedi General.

And suddenly the mark had gone quiet.

You stared at it now, at the familiar shape etched into your skin. It looked no different than it had yesterday. But you could still feel the ghost of his touch on your shoulder, the way the fire in your wrist had simply… stopped.

It didn’t fit. It couldn’t. Not with him. Not with Obi-Wan Kenobi, who was supposed to be nothing more than your commanding officer, a Jedi sworn to detachment, a man concerned about your sleep schedule.

And yet—

You pressed your fingers harder to the mark, as if the pressure would push the truth back down where it belonged. But the warmth that lingered there wasn’t going anywhere.

Panic flared hot in your chest, sharp and unrelenting, making it almost impossible to draw a steady breath. Your fingers clutched the edge of the sink as the thought clawed its way through your mind, impossible to ignore.

Oh, Kriff.

Could… could General Kenobi be your soulmate?

taglist: open!

The list was nearly complete. One by one the names had been checked off, the lines of armored men filing through your station for blood samples, bone scans, vaccinations, and all the tiny details that kept them fit for battle. Most of them joked their way through it, grumbling about needles, or teasing you about being too gentle compared to Kaminoans.

Now, there were only two names left.

You scrolled down the datapad, lips pursing. CC-2224. Commander Cody.

And below it, one more. General Obi-Wan Kenobi.

You let the datapad drop lightly against your thigh, exhaling. Commander would be easy enough — he rarely argued about routine, though you suspected he didn’t exactly enjoy being poked and prodded. The General, though… you had seen him in passing, but never up close. The thought made you both scared and excited.

You found Cody in the command center, helmet under his arm, hunched over a holographic projection of a star system with two of his captains. His armor was scuffed from the last campaign, though he still managed to look sharp, precise, every movement controlled.

You waited until Cody finished giving orders before stepping closer. “Commander,” you said gently.

He turned, the hard lines of his face easing when he recognized you. “Doc. Come to drag me into the medbay again?”

“Not drag,” you replied with a faint smile, lifting your datapad. “But yes — you’re next on the list.”

He gave a low huff of amusement. “Always the last one.”

“Actually…” You tilted the datapad toward him. “Not this time.”

His brows lifted. “What do you mean?” He reached for the datapad, scanning the roster himself.

“General Kenobi,” you supplied. “Do you know where I can find him?”

“Bridge,” Cody said after a moment, handing the pad back. His tone was neutral, but his eyes lingered on you with a flicker of something unreadable.

“Great. Thank you.”

As you turned to go, he added, “Wait — you’re actually going to him?”

You paused, brow furrowed. “Yes. Why?”

Cody hesitated, helmet tucked under his arm. “Nothing. Just… good luck.”

You blinked, baffled. “Thank you…?” The word came out half statement, half question. You still couldn’t understand why the simple task of calling on General Kenobi warranted luck.

“You know he’s not going to show up,” Cody said, sliding his helmet under his arm.

You tilted your head. “What do you mean? He has to. It’s obligatory.”

“He’s a Jedi,” Cody countered, one brow arched.

“Yes, but he’s also a General, part of the army.” you replied, folding your arms with mock sternness. “And rules are rules. Everyone gets their checkup.”

Cody shook his head, a faint smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “You’re impossible.”

“Not impossible,” you corrected with a grin, tapping the datapad against your hip. “Just dedicated.”

You gave him a quick wink before turning toward the corridor. The faint warmth on your wrist flared as you walked away, though you ignored it, focusing instead on the soft hum of the turbolift carrying you up to the bridge.

The turbolift doors opened to the quiet hum of the bridge. Officers and clones moved with efficient precision, their voices low, their eyes fixed on streams of data and star maps. You stepped forward, datapad in hand, but immediately two guards at the threshold shifted their stances, blocking your way.

“Authorized personnel only,” one said politely, but firmly.

You straightened your shoulders. “I’m here on official duty. Medical.”

They exchanged a skeptical look, as if the medbay had little reason to interrupt command proceedings. You opened your mouth to argue when a voice called from deeper in the room.

“Let her through.”

It was one of the lieutenants, glancing up from his console with a nod of recognition. The guards stepped aside reluctantly, and you exhaled before walking onto the bridge proper.

The air in here was different — tighter, sharper, every sound purposeful. And at the center of it all stood General Kenobi, dark brown cloak draped neatly around his shoulders, head bowed slightly as he studied the shifting holographic map before him. His presence radiated a calm authority, so steady it seemed to hold the entire room together.

The mark pulsed beneath your sleeve, the sensation stealing your breath for a heartbeat. You froze, struck silent by the sudden wave of it.

You forced the feeling down, clearing your throat softly to steady yourself.

“General?” Your voice carried more smoothly than you expected. “May I take a moment?”

He looked up. Blue eyes fixed on yours, sharp and piercing, and for a second you thought he had felt it too — that same jolt, that same burn. But his expression remained even, unreadable save for the faintest crease at the corner of his brow.

“Of course,” he said, his tone as calm as ever. “Has something happened?”

You shook your head quickly. “No, sir. I came here to remind you about your routine check-up.”

For a moment, silence blanketed the bridge. A subtle pause in movement, a shift in attention. Officers glanced up from their stations. Clones raised their brows. No one said a word, but the weight of their stares pressed at the edges of your awareness.

A Jedi General. Being told to report for something as ordinary as a medical test.

You held your ground, spine straight, datapad steady in your hand, even as the heat in your chest threatened to unravel your composure.

Obi-Wan’s gaze lingered on you, sharp and assessing, before the faintest smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.

“A check-up,” he repeated, voice low but edged with amusement. “I can’t say I was expecting that to be the emergency.”

You tightened your grip on the datapad, trying not to flush. “It’s not an emergency, General. It’s standard protocol. Everyone on board is required to complete one.”

“Even Jedi Generals?” His brow lifted, the teasing lilt in his voice catching you off guard.

“Yes,” you said firmly, though your lips betrayed you with the ghost of a smile. “Even Jedi Generals. Rules are rules.”

For a heartbeat, something flickered in his eyes — not mockery, not dismissal, but something gentler, as if he was entertained by your determination. Then he let out a soft chuckle and straightened his stance, the moment passing as quickly as it had come.

“Well then,” he said smoothly, “I shall have to put myself at your mercy… eventually. But as you can see”—he gestured to the star map, shifting lines of Separatist fleets—“the galaxy has seen fit to keep me occupied.”

You opened your mouth to argue, but he raised a hand lightly, cutting you off with impeccable politeness.

“I appreciate your diligence, truly. But I must ask you to excuse me for now.” His tone was warm, his dismissal gentle, but unmistakable.

Around you, the officers and clones had gone back to their work, though you swore a few were whispering behind your back.

You nodded, pressing your lips together. “Understood, General.”

Behind you, Obi-Wan’s eyes lingered for a moment longer than necessary before he returned his focus to the map.

*****

You adjusted the scanner over Cody’s chest, the machine humming softly as it read his vitals. He sat on the cot with the relaxed patience of someone who had done this a hundred times before, though the faint curve of his mouth suggested he was waiting for you to speak.

“So,” he said at last, helmet resting beside him. “How did it go?”

You exhaled, pressing a button on the datapad to log his readings. “He… wasn’t exactly eager to comply.”

“Really?” he drawled, the smirk in his voice unmistakable.

“I told him it was standard protocol, that everyone has to get their check-up,” you explained, half exasperated, half still flustered from the exchange. “And do you know what he said? He asked if that applied to Jedi Generals.”

Cody’s brows lifted, then he broke into a low laugh that quickly grew into something louder, echoing off the sterile walls. He pressed a hand to his side as if to hold it in, though the grin refused to leave his face.

“Oh, stars,” he chuckled. “I would’ve paid to see that. Our General, questioning medical protocol.”

You shot him a mock glare, though your lips curved despite yourself. “It’s not funny. Everyone on the bridge looked at me as if I said that I work for the Seppies.”

That only made Cody laugh harder, his shoulders shaking as he leaned back against the wall.

“I’m glad my humiliation is entertaining,” you muttered, checking his blood pressure with exaggerated focus.

“Entertaining? Doc, it’s priceless.” He tilted his head, the laughter fading into a grin. “You’ve got guts, walking up to him like that.”

“Guts or foolishness.”

“Maybe both,” Cody said warmly. “But that’s what makes you you.”

For a moment, the medbay was filled with nothing but the quiet rhythm of the machines and Cody’s lingering amusement.

You tapped the datapad once more, the results pulling up in neat lines of numbers and charts. Your smile quickly faded.

“Cody…” you began carefully, scanning the figures again as if you might have misread them.

He sat straighter. “Bad news?”

“Not bad,” you corrected quickly, though your brow furrowed. “But not where I’d like them to be, either. Your red cell count is a little below average. Same with your muscle recovery markers. It’s nothing catastrophic, but—” You pressed your lips together. “It worries me.”

Cody gave a short huff of amusement. “You always worry.”

“Of course I do.” You set the datapad aside, folding your arms. “You’re my patient—and my friend. I want you at your best out there, not lagging behind.”

His amber-brown eyes softened, though his smile stayed. “Doc, I’ve never once lagged behind. Not my style.”

“That doesn’t mean you’re invincible,” you shot back, shaking your head. “You push too hard, you don’t rest enough, you’re running on caf and sheer will half the time—”

He cut you off with a grin. “And yet, here I am. Still charming as ever.”

You rolled your eyes at the obvious attempt, then smacked his shoulder lightly. “Charming, my ass. You’re lucky I don’t order you to bedrest.”

“Tempting,” he said with a smirk, rubbing the spot where you’d swatted him.

You gave him a glare that was more fond than stern, though your chest was still tight with unease. The battlefield was unforgiving, and Cody wasn’t just a name on a chart to you — he was someone you cared about, someone you couldn’t bear to see fall short of the strength he always carried for everyone else.

“I’m serious,” you said softly, your voice dropping. “Promise me you’ll take it easier. At least for a while.”

For once, he didn’t deflect with humor. He studied you for a long moment, then gave a small nod. “Alright. For you.”

You glanced up at the chrono display on the wall. Four hours. Four hours since you’d reminded the General about his check-up.

“You really think he’ll show up?” he asked, leaning back slightly on the cot.

“He has to,” you said firmly, tapping the datapad against your hip. “Or I’ll drag him here myself.”

Cody snorted. “I can just imagine that. You can’t even reach the top shelves—OW!”

He yelped as you lightly jabbed him in the side with your finger.

“You were saying, Commander?” you teased, raising an eyebrow.

He laughed, rubbing his side. “You’re lucky I like you.”

You gave him a small, triumphant grin, shaking your head. “Don’t push it, Cody.”

*****

Exactly twelve hours later, the anger that had been simmering all day boiled over. You’d counted the minutes once, twice — you’d lost track after the third hour — and now the medbay’s fluorescent light felt like an accusation.

He still hadn’t shown.

Then you saw him: moving down the corridor two decks up, cloak sweeping, stride long and purposeful, flanked by a pair of troopers giving and receiving crisp commands. He looked every inch the General — composed, necessary, already halfway to the next crisis.

Something in you snapped. You dropped whatever calm you’d been forcing and cut across the deck in a sprint, boots striking steel, breath keening in your chest. The troopers at the end of the hall turned as you barreled past, curiosity and a little amusement flashing across their faces.

You caught up to him in two strides and planted yourself in front of the group.

“General Kenobi!” you called, voice sharp enough to carry.

He halted, the motion smooth and unhurried. “Not now, Miss. I am quite in a hurry.”

“But General—”

“I am certain it can wait. Please excuse me—” his tone was polite, the same velveted calm he wore like armor.

Something louder than propriety rose in your throat. You forced air in, then let it out in a sound that belonged to the part of you that did not stitch wounds or soothe nightmares.

“GENERAL KENOBI, YOU WILL LISTEN TO ME RIGHT NOW!”

The corridor fell silent like a held breath. Conversations died mid-sentence. A dozen pairs of eyes turned; the troopers halted, rifles idle at their sides. For a heartbeat you were terrified — the kind of cold, stomach-dropping fear that made your knees go weak — that you’d just ruined everything, that you’d shouted yourself out of a job.

You steadied yourself, feeling the tach of your own pulse at your throat. You pushed your chin up and met his gaze with everything you had left.

“I don’t care how long this matter is going to take,” you said, voice low but absolutely certain. “I want to see you in the Med Bay immediately afterward, or—so help me, Maker—you will not like what happens if I don’t. Is that understood?”

General Kenobi blinked at you, slow and deliberate, as if registering every word you’d just shouted. For a heartbeat, nothing moved — not him, not the troopers, not even the hum of the corridor.

“Right away,” he said finally, his voice calm but carrying that subtle edge of command he always had. “Now, excuse me.”

And just like that, he turned and strode away, every step measured and purposeful, leaving you frozen in the middle of the corridor.

Oh, Maker…

You had yelled.

At your General.

Despite yourself, a small, victorious grin spread across your face.

Cody is going to lose it when he hears about this.

*****

taglist: open!

You had learned to carve out quiet spaces in the noise. The medbay was one of them — bright, sterile, but softened by your presence.

The clones called you “Doc” even though you weren’t technically one. You were a field medic with a Republic commission, a civilian in every way but the uniform. In another life you might have been tending to gardens or running a small clinic on your homeworld. In this one, you were stitching soldiers together between campaigns.

The men of the 212th came to you for more than stitches. They came because you listened. You knew their names, their stories, the little things that made each of them more than a number. You had an uncanny sense for what to say to quiet a nightmare or a panic attack. Some of the troopers joked you half a witch, half a miracle worker. In truth, you’d always been like this: deeply attuned to others, a calm tide in a rough sea.

That afternoon began like any other.

The end of the campaign on the Outer Rim had left half a platoon with plasma burns. You were elbow-deep in bacta patches and burn salve, your sleeves rolled back, hair tucked behind your ears. Waxer and Boil were arguing about something on the next cot over while you rewrapped a bandage on a young trooper’s forearm. Your tone was soft but firm, guiding him through breathing exercises as you worked.

And then, the warmth.

A pulse under your skin, small but undeniable.

The mark on your wrist glowed faintly under the harsh medbay lights, as though lit from within.

You froze, eyes flicking down. It hadn’t done that in years.

It had appeared when you were sixteen, burning under your skin for a week before settling into permanent ink.

The mark of a soulmate — not unheard of, but rare enough to be whispered about. You had grown up daydreaming about the person who bore its twin. As the war consumed the galaxy, those dreams dimmed but never fully vanished. Sometimes, in the middle of the night, the mark warmed faintly as if answering a call you couldn’t hear.

“Doc? You okay?”

The trooper’s voice cut through the haze like a hand pulling you back from deep water. You blinked, forced yourself to meet his eyes, and managed a small smile before nodding.

“I’m fine,” you said softly. “Just a little light-headed. Must be the antiseptic.”

The wound was dressed; your hands moved on instinct now, tying off the last strip of gauze. You murmured a perfunctory goodbye and stepped out, the edges of the medbay already blurring at the corners.

The restroom was narrow, sterile, smelling faintly of bleach and metal. You locked yourself in, the latch clicking like a small drumbeat in your chest.

And there it was.

Your right hand rose as if drawn by invisible strings. The mark pulsed beneath your skin, faintly glowing like embers dying in the dark. You traced its outline with trembling fingers, feeling its heat, its insistence.

A sigh escaped you, hollow and quiet. You’d seen it flare before, felt its rhythm in your veins, but tonight it throbbed differently—an urgent whisper beneath the surface.

It weighed on you, a premonition carved in light and fire.

Was it a sign? A warning? Or simply the echo of something far older, far angrier, than you were ready to face?

The sudden buzz of your comm shattered the fragile cocoon of silence. You flinched, the sound slicing through the quiet like metal on glass.

“Doc, we need you back. Another wave of critical just rolled in.”

The words were urgent, sharp, and without pause. Your pulse jumped, but your hand lingered for a heartbeat longer on the mark, tracing the faint glow beneath your skin.

It pulsed in reply, like a heartbeat of its own, insistent and impatient. You swallowed, the weight of it heavy in your chest.

“Copy, I’ll be there in 3.”

With a final glance at your reflection in the cold metal of the stall door, you straightened, tucking the unease deep, and moved.

******

By the time your shift ended, your bones ached, muscles sore from bending over cots and carrying injured soldiers. The medbay lights seemed sharper than usual, every beeping console reminding you that the war never slept.

You grabbed your satchel, securing supplies for the next day, and made your way through the winding corridors of the Negotiator. The hum of the engines vibrated under your feet, and the metallic scent of recycled air clung to everything.

You navigated the corridors, boots clacking against steel plating. The usual chatter of clone troopers and engineers buzzed in the background, but your mind drifted to the faint warmth lingering on your wrist.

When you stepped into the cantina, the murmur of conversation, clinking of cups, and low hum of the ventilation system wrapped around you. At a corner table, sat a familiar figure in orange-and-white armor. Commander Cody.

You knew him from reputation long before meeting him in person: CC-2224, trusted second-in-command of the 212th Attack Battalion.

Cody was legendary among the troopers he led — disciplined, precise, but approachable in a way that made men want to follow him into the fire. Unlike many commanders, he treated the clones as more than tools of war.

He remembered birthdays, made sure the equipment was stocked on time when the Med Bay ran low, and was fiercely protective of his men’s well-being. He had been with the battalion for almost as long as the Clone Wars themselves had been raging, fighting alongside Jedi generals and earning the respect of soldiers and officers alike.

His orange armor was scuffed and streaked with soot, a testament to the latest skirmishes. His helmet sat on the table, revealing a square-jawed, determined face that somehow radiated calm authority. When he spotted you approaching, he gave a small nod.

“Doc,” he said with a faint grin. “You look like someone kicked you through a sandstorm.”

You offered a tired smile, letting yourself slide into the empty seat across from him. “Feels like I’ve been run over by a tank,” you muttered. Your wrist throbbed faintly under the sleeve, making you grimace.

Cody noticed, of course he did.

“Is it the mark again?” he asked, leaning back slightly in his chair, eyes steady and concerned.

You nodded, pressing your lips together. “Yeah… it’s been itchy all morning. Doesn’t seem to stop no matter how many times I wash my hands or put some balm on it.”

The clone gave a small, knowing nod. One of the few people who tried to understand what it meant, one of the few you trusted with this. You had explained it all to him — the strange warmth, the mark itself, the rare certainty that somewhere out there, someone bore the twin of this symbol. He had promised never to tell anyone unless you gave him permission… or if the situation demanded it.

You sighed and tried to push the thought aside. “Enough about me. How was the campaign? Heard you guys took some hits.”

Cody’s jaw tensed slightly, the way it always did when thinking through reports in his head. “Yeah… Ryloth wasn’t exactly forgiving. Lots of back-and-forth fighting. We held the line, but there were casualties.” He paused, then a faint smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. “Although Waxer and Boil seemed to have plenty of fun.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Why’s that?”

“They were tasked with scouting the perimeter,” Cody explained, “when they stumbled upon a kid. Little Twi’lek girl. Numa, I think. At first I was frustrated — after all, they showed clear signs of insubordination — but then the kid led them and General Kenobi through the tunnels and managed to free the rest of her people. Takes some guts to do that.”

You smiled, picturing it. “Sounds like a great kid. I’d love to meet her.”

Cody chuckled softly. “Boil and Waxer won’t shut up about her. Just ask them. and see for yourself.”

You laughed quietly, shaking your head. “Those two never change.”

His expression softened. “They’re good soldiers, though. Loyal, brave, but sometimes just reckless and that's what worries me."

His eyes lingered a moment longer than necessary, not unkindly, and you felt your chest tighten — not from the soreness of your shift, but from the quiet weight of his attention.

You glanced down at your wrist, feeling the faint tingle of the mark again. The itch wasn’t painful, just insistent, a whisper reminding you that something — someone — was out there, waiting, connected.

Commander leaned back, casual again. “Anyway… how’s the medbay holding up?”

You smiled, the warmth in your chest softening a bit. “Surprisingly well. I might even start thinking I could handle a full battalion someday.”

He raised a brow, smiling with that mix of amusement and pride that always made you feel seen.

“You’re basically from the top of the medic league, why wouldn’t you handle it?” Cody asked, leaning back slightly, casual but probing.

“Because that’s what I am, Cody. A medic, nothing else,” you replied softly, the words steady even as your chest tightened. “I’m not a doctor. I don’t make the calls.”

“Not yet.” He pointed a finger at you, sharp but not harsh, like a teacher signaling a student who didn’t yet realize their own strength.

“Oh, come on. We’ve been over this. You know I cannot apply for university. I barely have any resources to survive on my own.” You tried to keep your voice light, almost teasing, but a shadow of fatigue lingered at the edges.

“I could help you with that. Fox knows some people in the Senate; I’ll talk to him, and then maybe—”

You held up a hand, stopping him. “No, I-I don’t want you to do that. I’m fine where I am. Really.”

Cody shook his head, his expression softening, a mix of exasperation and fondness. “You’re wasting your potential here. You should be out there helping people that really need it.”

“And you think you don’t need my help?” you murmured, your gaze locking onto his, gentle but unwavering.

His jaw tightened slightly.

“We’re just numbers,” he mumbled, looking down at his hands, avoiding your eyes. Your heart clenched paimfully in your chest.

You reached out, taking his gloved hand in yours. The warmth of his fingers pressed against your palm, grounding both of you. “Not to me,” you said quietly.

The cantina around you faded slightly. The hum of the ship, the chatter of clones, the faint smell of ration packs…all of it disappeared beneath the steady, human weight of that moment.

“You really mean that?” Cody’s voice was low, almost hesitant, as if afraid the words might shatter the fragile thread connecting you.

“I do.” You squeezed his hand gently, a promise in that simple gesture. “You’re not just another number to me. Not ever.”

Cody’s eyes met yours at last, clear and sharp, and for the first time that day, he let himself feel the weight of it too. A rare, quiet vulnerability flickered across his face before he masked it again with his usual calm.

“Thank you, mesh’la. It means a lot.”

“That’s what friends are for, Commander.”

Cody’s commlink chirped, cutting through the soft murmur of the cantina. He sighed, glancing at the frequency.

“Karabast, it’s the command center,” he said, rising from the table. His expression shifted back into the practiced mask of a commander, but he hesitated for a heartbeat before pulling his hand away from yours. “I have to go.”

You gave him a small smile, one you hoped looked reassuring. “Duty calls,” you murmured. “I’ll see you later.”

He gave a small nod, then was gone, armor clinking faintly as he disappeared into the corridor.

You stayed behind, ration pack cooling in your hands. The cantina felt strangely hollow without him, the distant clatter of trays and muted conversation echoing off the walls. You ate slowly, the food warm but tasteless, letting your mind wander.

By the time you stood, the cantina had thinned to a few troopers on late shifts. You tossed the empty pack into the bin and stepped back into the corridor. The ship’s lighting had shifted to the softer tones of “night,” though time meant little on a starship. You walked the familiar path back toward your quarters, boots clinking against the deck.

Halfway there, you felt it.

A sudden, subtle tug, not physical but unmistakable — a tightening in your chest, a flicker of awareness just at the edge of your senses. The mark under your sleeve warmed, a quiet pulse of heat against your skin.

You stopped in the middle of the corridor, breath caught. The air felt different somehow, charged. The sensation wasn’t unpleasant, just strange: a presence brushing against the edge of your mind, a heartbeat that wasn’t your own.

You glanced around. The hallway was empty except for a passing astromech. No one was there.

Your rational mind, trained on wounds and bacta and numbers, took over. It was nothing. Fatigue. Nerves.

An echo of a long day’s work.

You tugged your sleeve down over your wrist, pressed your hand to your chest, and forced yourself to breathe. The warmth faded, as though retreating.

You shook your head, muttering under your breath, “I’m just tired.”

You continued toward your quarters, the soft hiss of the doors closing behind you. The small cabin was dim and quiet, your cot neatly made, a single holo on the desk from home. You sat down heavily, pulling your boots off one by one. The mark still tingled faintly, but you ignored it, rubbing at your temple.

*****

A deck below, in one of the cruiser's dimly lit corridors, Obi-Wan Kenobi paused mid-stride. Something brushed against him through the Force — faint but unmistakable, a presence but of another kind. For an instant the mask of serenity he wore so easily cracked, blue eyes narrowing as the sensation rippled through him. Then he drew a slow breath, shoulders squaring, and let the feeling slip from his grasp. Duty waited, and he couldn't afford to make any mistakes.

Not now, not ever.

*****