Coruscant, 19 BBY — The Hangar

The engines screamed somewhere above the city, their glow flickering through the transparisteel as night settled over the skyline. The celebration had started hours ago — pilots laughing, clinking glasses, telling stories of close calls and narrow escapes.

You were smiling, but it didn’t reach your eyes. Every time someone poured you another drink, you let them. Anything to keep from thinking about him.

And Anakin noticed.

He’d been standing near the shadows, mechanical hand folded across his chest, blue eyes tracking you like a sensor locked on target. You hadn’t spoken since the argument before the mission — about the Council, about his secrecy, about the way he shut you out.

So instead of asking for answers, you drank.

When you reached for another glass, he finally moved. The sound of his boots against the durasteel floor cut through the laughter around you. Before you realized it, his hand closed gently but firmly around your wrist.

“That’s enough,” he said — voice low, command threaded with concern.

You pulled back, chin lifting. “What’s your problem, Skywalker?”

“You. Pretending you’re fine when you’re not.”

“I am fine,” you shot back, throwing the drink back like defiance itself. The burn hit hard, but you didn’t flinch. “See? Perfectly fine.”

His jaw tightened, the blue in his eyes darkening with something you couldn’t quite name. Without a word, he took the empty glass from your hand and set it down. Then he leaned closer, the scent of ozone and metal between you.

“We’re talking. Now.”

Before you could argue, he guided you out of the hangar — firm, steady, the warmth of his hand at your back grounding you even as you resisted. The noise faded as he led you into a maintenance bay, lights low, the hum of repulsorlifts muffled behind closed doors.

You crossed your arms, glaring up at him. “You can’t just drag me around like one of your Padawans.”

“Maybe not,” he said, running a hand through his hair, frustration sparking behind his eyes. “But I’m not going to watch you tear yourself apart just because you’re angry with me.”

Your throat tightened. You looked away. “I’m not angry. I’m… letting go. Of you. Of this.”

He took a step closer, voice breaking softer. “You think it’s easy for me? To walk away from everything — from you — every time duty calls?”

You swallowed hard, unable to meet his gaze. “Then don’t.”

For a heartbeat, silence filled the air — the kind that hummed with everything unsaid. His expression softened, the fight draining out of him.

“You know I would,” he whispered, “if the galaxy would just let me.”