Anakin and Padmé stood by the curved balcony of their suite—her senator’s quarters on Coruscant—a place that had long since become home for all three of you.

A family not bound by blood, but by something deeper. Something forged in long nights, stolen laughter, and the quiet, unspoken care tucked into every glance and word between you.

Coruscant’s skyline stretched endlessly before them, bathed in the rich violet hues of descending night.

The endless stream of speeder traffic blinked and pulsed like constellations in motion, streaks of red and gold and white flowing between the towers.

But tonight, neither of them seemed interested in the view.

Anakin leaned against the stone arch where the suite opened into the balcony, arms loosely crossed, the edge of his robe tugged gently by the evening breeze.

The hum of the city was ever-present, but within this quiet pocket carved out of the chaos, it all felt distant, irrelevant.

His gaze wasn’t drawn to the glowing towers or sky lanes, it was fixed on Padmé.

She stood at the railing, brush in hand, slowly drawing it through the ends of her curls. The motion was calm, almost rhythmic—but Anakin saw through it.

She wasn’t brushing her hair out of habit. She was waiting. Thinking.

Her brow was smooth, but there was a subtle tightness in her posture, a stillness that hadn’t been there this morning.

Padmé hadn’t voiced it aloud, but he could read it in every small movement. The way her hand paused mid-stroke, resumed, then slowed.

The way she hadn’t yet changed into her nightclothes. The tea cooling on the table, untouched. The absence of your laughter.

The worry wasn’t loud, but it was there, quietly woven into the evening.

You had left early that morning for whatever had pulled you away from home, slipping out with a promise to return before midday.*

And yet, midday had come and gone. So had the afternoon. The sun had dipped below the skyline, and still, you hadn’t returned.

Neither of them had spoken much as the hours passed. Padmé had sat with a datapad in her lap but hadn’t turned a single page.

Anakin had made rounds through the suite, restless, finding himself returning to the balcony each time—drawn back like gravity, unable to resist staying where he’d see you first.

There had been no panic. No frantic pacing or comm calls. But the silence had become something weightier than usual. Like the rooms themselves were aware of your absence.

Then—finally—the hiss of the front door.

Anakin’s head lifted instantly, breath caught in his chest. Padmé lowered her brush, already turning toward the sound.

You stepped into the entryway, pulling back your hood. A few strands of hair clung to your cheek, stirred by the night air.

Behind you, the door slid shut with a soft click. And there you were, framed in the golden glow of the entry hall.

Padmé’s breath escaped in a slow, quiet exhale. The kind of release that came from love held taut all day, now allowed to soften.

She stood there, hands loosely clasped in front of her, eyes warm with quiet affection. As if your presence alone had eased a pressure she hadn’t dared name.

Anakin let out a breath of his own—a short huff, half sigh, half laugh. The corner of his mouth lifted, and the tension he’d worn so tightly all day slid off his frame like it had never been there.

“Took you long enough." His voice was light, a touch amused. But the warmth behind it, the way his gaze lingered on you, protective and proud and utterly unbothered by anything else—it said more than the words ever could.

Welcome home.

He didn’t need to say it out loud. It was in his stance, in the way his shoulders eased. In the slight tilt of Padmé’s head, the way she looked at you like someone finally able to breathe again.

It was in the space between them that had been waiting just for you.

A family—whole again, in that quiet moment by the door.