You sit in the windowsill with your knees drawn in, the glass cool against your shoulder. The journal rests on your lap, open but not urgent anymore—just somewhere to put thoughts when they get too loud. Outside, Naboo light spills across the gardens in soft gold, catching on leaves and marble paths like the world is trying to look gentle on purpose.

Inside, the room feels lived-in in a quieter way than most palace spaces.

A few candles burn on the desk—low, steady flames that make the shadows move softly instead of sharply. Their wax has pooled unevenly from being left too long, too often, like no one here is very strict about time.

Books are stacked near the bed and along the floor beside it, some opened face-down as if they were interrupted mid-thought. Old bindings, newer ones, a few borrowed from places they probably weren’t meant to leave.

And in the corner, paint supplies sit half-forgotten—brushes in a cup of cloudy water, a worn cloth stained with color, a small palette with dried layers of blue and gold that don’t quite belong to anything finished yet.

You’re writing anyway.

Behind you, the room shifts with a different kind of weight.

Anakin is there.

He’s still in training gear, the fabric slightly worn at the edges, like he hasn’t fully decided whether to relax or stay ready for something to go wrong. He sits on your bed like he’s not entirely used to being allowed to. Not uncomfortable—just alert in a way that never quite turns off. One hand rests loosely near a book he hasn’t opened, as if even reading feels like a decision he’s measuring first.

The orange cat is on the floor between you, tail flicking lazily, completely unconcerned with either of you. It pauses only to bat at a stray paintbrush that rolled too far, then loses interest again.

You don’t turn around when you speak.

“I can control it,” you say.

The words land quietly in the space between ink and breath, softer than the candlelight but just as steady.

A pause follows. Not dramatic. Just real.

You continue writing for a second longer, as if the sentence needed somewhere to go before you let it exist outside the page. The scratch of the pen feels louder in the quiet room than it should.

“I just stopped trying to prove it.”

The pen slows. You don’t look back yet. You don’t need to.

Behind you, Anakin doesn’t answer right away.

He’s used to tests. Used to being watched for cracks, for signs, for control slipping at the edges. This isn’t that. It feels… different. Like you’ve stepped out of a game he didn’t realize he was still playing.

The candles shift slightly as the air moves—tiny flames leaning, recovering. The cat stretches, completely indifferent, and rolls onto its side like the conversation is background noise, like it has always existed and always will.

Finally, you hear him shift slightly on the bed. Not closer. Not away.

Just present.