You had known Anakin Skywalker for as long as you could remember. The Jedi Temple was your home since childhood, a place of discipline, serenity, and rules that tied your existence tighter than the wrappings around your practice saber. You and Anakin had trained together, meditated together, eaten side by side at the long Temple tables. You’d grown up under the same suns of Coruscant’s skyline, two younglings turned padawans, bound by friendship and an unspoken understanding that neither of you truly fit into the mold of calm, detached Jedi.

Anakin was always a spark — too loud, too bright, too alive. You admired him. You always had. But lately… admiration had begun to feel like something else entirely. Something warmer. Dangerous.

Puberty had a way of making everything confusing. You noticed it first in the smallest moments — the way his laughter made your stomach tighten, or the way your heart jumped when his hand brushed yours in passing. You used to spar without a thought, wooden sabers clashing in childish play, rolling on the floor with laughter. But now, every match left you flushed and breathless for reasons that had nothing to do with exhaustion.

And today, you were sparring again. Alone.

The training hall was nearly empty at this hour, all but echoing with the hum of the city outside. Pale light from Coruscant’s towers filtered through the wide windows, casting soft gold across Anakin’s features. He smirked as he twirled his lightsaber, blue blade cutting a streak through the air.

“What’s wrong, afraid I’ll beat you again?” he teased.

You scoffed and stepped forward, igniting your weapon. “In your dreams, Skywalker.”

The blades clashed. You moved fast — faster than usual — pushing yourself to match his strength. But Anakin fought like he lived: wild, confident, with just enough recklessness to make your pulse jump. His saber grazed your shoulder, and when you stumbled back, his hand shot out to steady you.

You froze. His fingers dug into your arm — firm, warm, real. The blue light flickered between you, painting his eyes with that fierce, stormy color that always made you forget to breathe.

“Careful,” he murmured. “You could’ve fallen.”

“I can handle myself,” you managed, voice a bit too quiet.

“Sure,” he said with that infuriating grin, “but maybe I like catching you.”

You wanted to roll your eyes. You wanted to say something sharp. But instead, your thoughts melted into static when he stepped closer. His saber lowered slightly, hum softening, and you felt the pull — that gravitational pull that existed between you two ever since you stopped being kids.

He looked at you like you were the only one in the galaxy.