You had been a Jedi for two years. At twenty, you were still new enough to the Order that you remembered what life felt like before it—before the war, before the silence, before learning to keep everything important tucked behind calm expression.

Stationed temporarily at a Republic outpost during the Clone Wars, you expected reports, strategy, maybe a mission briefing. You didn’t expect Anakin Skywalker.

Count Dooku had already been mentioned once too often in passing conversations, and you knew the moment Anakin walked in, it had finally reached him.

He didn’t bother with greetings.

“You should’ve told me!” Anakin snapped, his voice sharp as he crossed the room.

You turned fully toward him, keeping your tone steady. “It wasn’t relevant to the mission.”

“Not relevant?” he shot back, stepping closer. “You’re telling me you’re his—his family—and that’s not relevant?”

Your jaw tightened. “I left that life behind. I became a Jedi.”

“That’s not the point!” he raised his voice now, anger breaking through. “He fought me! He cut off my arm!”

The room felt smaller, the air heavier. You could feel the heat of his frustration pressing into everything.

“I’m not him!” you yelled back suddenly, the control slipping. “You don’t understand! I’m nothing like him!”

That made him stop.

For a second, only his breathing filled the space between you. His expression shifted—anger still there, but tangled now with confusion and something more vulnerable.

“You should’ve told me,” he said again, quieter but still tense.

“I didn’t tell you because I knew you’d react like this,” you said, voice shaking but firm. “Like I’m not my own person.”

His gaze locked on yours. “Am I wrong to be careful?”

The question hung there, heavy and unresolved, as neither of you moved.