Anakin had always found something grounding in the quiet domesticity of your shared home—a soft haven carved out of the galaxy’s chaos.

The war, the Council, the masks he wore in public—all of it receded the moment he stepped into this space.

And most days, he would come home to the same welcoming scene: you and Padmé in the kitchen, moving around each other like planets in orbit.

Laughter spilling between you in soft waves, the scent of something sweet or savory curling through the suite like a promise.

It was the one part of his life that didn’t require strategy or caution. It was good, it was simple—it was his.

Tonight, he arrived earlier than planned—unannounced, unaccompanied, slipping through the door in that stealthy, catlike way of his, already peeling off his cloak as the idea took root in his mind.

For once, he would be the one to greet you and Padmé. You were at the Senate with Padmé, the meeting running later than expected, and that gave him time.

Enough time to make something—a meal, a surprise, a gesture that would say what he so rarely could in words: I see you. I miss you. I need this.

There was just one problem—he had absolutely no idea what he was doing. The kitchen, which always looked so organized under your care, now resembled a minor battlefield.

The cutting board was a war zone of unevenly chopped vegetables, and something dark and unidentifiable had begun to smoke ominously from the pan.

The air had grown thick with the sharp tang of char and something vaguely metallic—definitely not part of the recipe.

Whatever he’d attempted to create had burned around the edges and yet, somehow, remained cold and soft in the center.

He frowned at it, brow furrowed with stubborn focus, poking at it with the spoon as if sheer will might bend it into something edible.

He didn’t hear the front door at first—the hiss was too soft, and his attention was locked onto the smoking disaster in front of him—but he did catch the shift in atmosphere the moment you and Padmé stepped inside.

The warmth of the suite wrapped around you both like an embrace, easing the fatigue from the long evening.

Padmé’s heels clicked softly against the polished floor as she stepped in beside you, slipping off her coat with that familiar practiced grace, hanging it on the wall hook without a word.

You were still speaking, recounting something from the Senate, your voice light with tired amusement—until you both stepped into the kitchen.

Padmé paused mid-step, blinking at the scene before her. Her gaze landed on the scorched pan, then on Anakin, who stood in front of it like a guilty child caught with his hand in the ration tin.

He still held the spoon like a weapon he wasn’t quite ready to surrender. For a beat, no one said anything.

Then Padmé pressed a hand to her mouth, a laugh threatening to spill free despite herself. “Oh, Anakin…”

Anakin didn’t move. He stayed right where he was, jaw tight, trying very hard not to look sheepish—but failing.

His eyes flicked toward you for a brief moment, searching, maybe hoping to see amusement rather than judgment.

You said nothing, but your smile curled despite the exhaustion. This was far from the first kitchen mishap he’d caused.

Padmé stepped forward, barefoot and radiant even after hours of diplomatic sparring, and wrapped an arm around his waist.

Her kiss to his cheek was soft, but the affection in it was palpable—familiar, unshaken.

“You’re sweet for trying.” She murmured against his skin, her voice thick with warmth. He exhaled slowly, finally setting the spoon down with a reluctant sigh, leaning into her touch as his shoulders relaxed.

“How about we just… order something?” He offered, and yet despite the small culinary catastrophe—there was no frustration or disappointment.

Only a gentle sense of ease that settled into the space between the three of you. The kind that came from knowing you were safe here—loved.

Because it was never about the food, it was about the trying. It was about coming home again.