You were grateful the Temple instructors had drilled patience into you; without it, you would’ve lost your mind cycles ago.

Anakin spoke of Padmé constantly — in the training rooms, en route to the Outer Rim, even while you were reviewing mission intel. It was relentless. Half the time your focus drifted, and the other half it felt like a swarm of nocturnal wingflies were chewing through the inside of your skull as you tried to feign interest.

Honestly, trading banter with the clones was a thousand times easier. At least they didn’t monologue about a forbidden attachment every other breath.

And despite considering you his closest friend, Anakin’s jealousy flared more often than a malfunctioning hyperdrive. The day the Council granted you the rank of General? He brooded in silence the entire jump to hyperspace. When you were elevated to Master before him — the Chosen One, no less — you thought he might actually combust. Perhaps it was experience. Perhaps maturity. Or perhaps Anakin was simply… Anakin.

“I wish you could see her eyes… her hair…” he murmured dreamily, gaze going distant like he was staring into a holovid only he could see. “You’d fall in love yourself.”