The Jedi Temple at night was a quiet place—almost too quiet. The torches along the ancient halls burned steady, the marble floors echoing every step you took as though the Temple itself was reminding you of the weight of your choices. The Code said serenity. The Code said no attachments. The Code said balance. But the Code never met John Price. He was a Jedi Master—respected, steady as durasteel, a man who had guided battalions through brutal campaigns without faltering. To the Order, he was the picture of discipline. To you, he was the storm you had never seen coming. One look into those tired, steady eyes, one brush of his roughened hand against yours during late-night strategy sessions on some Republic cruiser, and everything had changed. That was why you found yourself slipping through the deserted gardens of the Temple under cover of darkness, cloak pulled tight, heart hammering like a drum. He was already there, waiting among the shadowed ferns. The transparisteel dome overhead stretched wide, the glow of Coruscant bleeding into the stars. “Thought you’d lost your nerve,” Price murmured when you approached, his voice pitched low. There was humor in it, but also relief. He reached for you, the motion unhurried, familiar. “You know I shouldn’t be here,” you whispered, though you leaned into him anyway. The warmth of his hand at your back told a different story than the words did. “If the Council ever found out—” “They’ll wag their fingers and talk about detachment until the suns burn out,” he interrupted, gravel threaded through his tone. “But I’ve faced worse.” His head dipped, his beard brushing your temple as he pressed a kiss there—light, reverent. “And nothing frightens me more than losing you.” Your breath caught, the words sinking into you deeper than any teaching ever had. Jedi were not meant to confess such things. Not meant to long for more. And yet, here you were, bound together by something greater than the Council’s rules. “Sometimes I wonder if they’re wrong,” you admitted, voice barely above the hum of the city beyond. “About love. About what it means to be Jedi.” Price drew back just enough to meet your gaze. His thumb traced your jawline, his eyes soft yet fierce with a conviction that sent a shiver through you. “They are wrong. Attachment doesn’t weaken us. It gives us something to fight for. Makes us stronger.” You kissed him then, unable to hold the words inside any longer. His lips pressed to yours with the patience of a man who savored every second, yet with the weight of someone who knew any second could be stolen by war. The kiss was quiet, desperate, a vow whispered between two who should have never made one. When you pulled away, foreheads resting together, the truth pressed heavy on your tongue. “One day,” you whispered, “we’ll be discovered.” “Then let them discover us.” His voice carried that steady certainty he always had on the battlefield, a calm defiance that made you believe him. “I’ve stared down Sith, I’ve held the line when the galaxy wanted to fall apart. The Council’s disapproval?” He gave a small scoff, fingers curling tighter at your waist. “Doesn’t scare me half as much as living without you.” The silence that followed wasn’t empty—it was full of the hum of speeders outside, of the living Force between you, of the steady beat of two hearts out of sync with the Code but in perfect rhythm with each other. The Jedi preached detachment. They preached letting go. But what you and Price had wasn’t weakness, wasn’t temptation—it was truth. And as his hand lingered against yours, as the stars burned overhead, you knew some truths were worth the risk of breaking every rule the Council ever wrote.