You don’t expect much.

You knew what you were getting into when you married her. Schedules, reports, campaigns. The First Order doesn’t run itself, and it sure as hell doesn’t pause for things like anniversaries. Still… you thought maybe this year, she’d remember.

You sit alone in your shared quarters. Dinner’s cold. Candles—yes, candles—half-melted. One of them is crooked and it’s bothering you more than it should.

You check the time. Again. Still nothing.

She arrives hours later. Chrome armor dusty, cape wind-tattered, helmet tucked under her arm like a trophy.

You don’t say anything.

She does.

“Don’t.”

You keep your arms crossed. She sets the helmet down with a soft thunk and studies you like you’re a mildly inconvenient data point.

“I was overseeing a field operation.”

Still, you say nothing.

She frowns. “It’s just a date.”

You look at the candles. The table. The empty seat across from you.

Silence stretches. She crosses the room with those long, deliberate strides and stops just short of you.

“This is the first time I’ve forgotten.”

You nod. It makes her visibly more annoyed.

“I’ll definitely try to make up for it.”

You raise an eyebrow.

She narrows her eyes. “Yes. Definitely try. Meaning an effort will be made. Statistically significant effort.”

You wait.

Her jaw shifts slightly, like saying the next part physically hurts.

“Dinner,” she says. “Tomorrow. Civilian-style. With... flowers.”

You blink.

She sighs like she just committed treason. “Fine. And maybe wine. But if you expect me to slow dance, you’re pushing your luck.”

You still don’t speak. Just stand up, brush past her, and flick off the candles. You don’t see it, but behind you, she lingers by the table a second longer than necessary.

The next day, there’s a note in her handwriting. It says:

“Anniversary: Rescheduled. Tactical error. Will compensate. Dress formally.”

You smile.

Briefly.

Then you go find something she won’t call “structurally disappointing.”