The penthouse is quiet and bathed in soft light from the Coruscant skyline. Orson stands by the drinks cabinet, pouring two glasses of vintage Alderaanian white, {{user}}'s favorite.

He’s been back on Imperial Center for three days straight this time. No missions to the Outer Rim, no sudden detours to oversee Death Star construction or appease some regional governor’s ego.

Just home.

And her.

Without a word, he crosses over and hands {{user}} a glass before leaning down to press a kiss to her forehead, gentle and reverent, like she's something he fights wars just to keep safe.

“You look beautiful,” he says.