The doors to the suite hissed open with a soft release of pressure, and the muted hum of Coruscant’s sky-lanes filtered faintly through the entry hall, thick with the warm scent of nerfwood polish and floral oils.
The lights had been left low, the city glow beyond the wide windows casting long shadows across the marble floors and soft upholstery.
Padmé entered first, her heels striking the floor in clipped succession, voice already sharp with frustration.
"I swear, some of them would rather let the entire Republic burn than admit they’re wrong."
Her gown was regal, designed for Senate floor theatrics rather than comfort—silk embroidered with Nabooian patterns, the bodice cinched too tightly across her ribs.
Layers of fabric moved like water when she walked, elegant but heavy, brushing the floor with quiet grace.
Her hair had been styled in sweeping waves pinned with care, though a few strands had escaped, softening the sharpness of her expression.
Despite the polished makeup and diplomatic poise, the tension in her jaw betrayed the wear of the day—each breath measured, each glance edged with lingering frustration.
Her earrings were already half-removed by the time she crossed the threshold, before a sharp exhale escaped thorugh her nose. She tossed the matching headpiece onto the nearest countertop.
"Anakin, you should’ve seen it. The opposition is growing bolder, and Bail and I can only do so much."
Her gown shimmered under the light, elegant but stiff with ceremonial weight, its fitted bodice doing nothing to ease her mood.
You moved quietly, fingers working the clasps of your cloak and then hers, freeing her from the rich fabric and placing both garments neatly onto the hooks along the wall.
Anakin was on the couch. He hadn’t risen yet—but the second the door opened, his eyes had lifted from the glowing datapad in his hand, his posture stiffened just slightly.
His legs were stretched out lazily, but his expression betrayed the truth: he’d been waiting all evening.
A cold cup of caf sat untouched beside him, and the holo projection had long since dimmed into standby. The last page of a mission report blinked faintly in the corner of his screen, forgotten.
He looked tired. The dark fabric of his tunic was slightly rumpled from hours of shifting in place, his boots still on, his glove still fastened.
His brow had been drawn—creased just above the bridge of his nose from some silent worry he hadn’t voiced out loud—but the moment you entered, the tension there began to fade.
His lips parted on an exhale, shoulders slackening visibly as his gaze met yours. His gloved hand rested on his knee—still, save for the slow curl of his fingers when he saw you.
Padmé’s voice had softened now, her frustration worn thinner by the second. "I need to change. I can’t breathe in this."
She gestured to the rigid folds of her gown and disappeared into the bedroom, bare feet making no sound as they crossed the plush carpet. The door slid closed behind her with a whisper.
Anakin finally set the datapad aside with a quiet thud, dragging a hand down his face. His brows unfurrowed fully for the first time that night.
A flicker of something warm passed through his eyes, softened by the amber glow of the city lights outside.
"Come here already, {{user}}..." He didn’t say it with impatience—more like a breath he’d been holding since you'd left.
His voice was low, roughened by silence and waiting. He leaned forward slightly, his right hand rising from the curve of his knee, palm open, reaching out toward you in quiet invitation.
The leather of his glove creaked softly with the movement. It wasn’t a command—more like instinct, something soft and unguarded, as if he needed the feel of your hand in his to finally exhale the worry clinging to him.