Chapter Text
“Mr Skywalker,” I moan.
“That’s it, shh, here we go,” he soothes, leaning over the top of me, fully bracketing me in between his arms.
“Feels good, doesn’t it?” he whispers- maybe to me, probably to himself.
All I know is that Mr Skywalker from next door- the man I’ve babysat for every time I’ve come home from college, my dad’s best friend- is in my bedroom, on my bed, on top of me.
“C’mon, moan for me, angel. Wanna-shit,” Anakin’s own groan of pleasure cuts him off. “Wanna hear your pretty voice.”
A short list of things I have learnt over the summer break is as follows: the train ride from college back to the station near home is longer than I remember it being; the local pet shelter is looking for volunteers and they’ve asked me to come back; and Anakin Skywalker really, really likes seeing me in a bikini.
It’s the middle of July, the kind of heat that sticks to your skin and makes the air feel heavy, and I’m tugging my suitcase down from the rack in the furthest, damp-smelling carriage of the train.
My roommate- a party girl (and a renounced Catholic)- had gone home for the summer. Which left me with a choice. I could’ve stayed at college, tucked away in my room, letting the cooler air and quiet give me space to study and breathe. Alone, and unbothered. Or I could come back here, back to the weight of this town, to the heat and the tourists, the chaos of travel, to sit in my old room and try to do the same thing. Alone, and definitely bothered.
If it weren’t for my dad’s email, I think I would’ve stayed. Just a short, stiff message from his work address, ordering me home. Signed ‘ LT. Colonel’ .
When he speaks, I listen. That’s how it’s always been. And I suppose that’s how it will always be.
College hasn’t been terrible this semester- which, for me, feels like a blessing. Last semester nearly broke me, had me staring down recruitment papers, and being one minor inconvenience away from leaving it all behind to spend the rest of my life in a unifrom. But this one… this one was lighter. My roommate pulled me into her world, her friends, her parties. They were kind, loud, bright. The kind of people who make you feel like you belong even if you don’t. I smiled with them, walked with them, tried to be part of it. And for a while, I was.
But I don’t do well in crowds. The noise, the heat, the strangers pressing in. The night Tom cornered me upstairs at a frat party was the end of it. Someone’s girlfriend got me out before anything happened, but still. After that, I stopped pretending. The lights, the sweat, the floors sticky with god-knows-what- it all made me sick.
The train jerks forward, and I stare out at the world blurring by. Nothing in this town ever changes, nothing’s ever cared for. The peeling sign above the door rattles with each bump, like it’s holding on by a thread. The trains are quiet most of the year, until summer pulls everyone here in search of something fleeting. A fling. A burn. A memory.
Two girls behind me are whispering, all sharp edges and secrets. They can’t be older than thirteen. Something about a classmate stuck in summer school because Mr O’Neil has a thing for her mom. Their laughter feels too big for their small voices, filling the carriage until it almost drowns out my thoughts.
But then, the view changes. It always does.
The city slips away first- glass towers and endless traffic fading into the distance. Then the suburbs, soft with family shadows: backyards lit in gold, kids climbing fences, a single kite plastered against the blue. Then the wide, open land- paddocks and stables, grass yellowed and heavy from the last storm. Over and over, rinse and repeat.
Memories bleed into the scenery.
The soccer field, now overgrown, where I spent every Saturday with my brother. His medals clanking against his chest, his grin caught forever in the photo frame on my desk.
The sharp sweetness of ninety-nine cent candy. Neighbours clapping, whistling, calling my name. Yellow cards waved at me more times than I could ever justify.
The airbase, silver and endless. My first kiss behind the hangar- too quick, too clumsy- laughter echoing in the training room until Dad’s boots cut through it. His nod to her father, so casual, while my face burned with the kind of heat I couldn’t blame on summer.
The town hall where I performed at the fifth-grade talent show, my tinny speakers blasting The Fray into every corner of the wood-paneled room.
My father doesn’t knock. He just fills the doorway like he owns the air itself, arms crossed, uniform perfect even though he’s off duty. I feel it pressing down on me, that weight I’ve known my whole life- the kind that makes my shoulders stiffen before I even say a word.
“Anakin needs a babysitter tonight,” he says, not a question. More like a command.
My stomach flips, and heat rises across my cheeks. Anakin Skywalker. Mr. Skywalker. My dad’s best friend, my neighbor, the man I’ve been crushing on for as long as I can remember.
He lives next door with his daughter, Ahsoka, who spends a couple of weekends a month at her mother’s upstate house.
I have this one image of him cemented in my mind: six feet tall, tanned, muscles that look like they were carved from stone. Shirtless, backwards cap, gardening in the yard, pulling out a stubborn weed while laughing at Ahsoka playing with the hose in her bucket hat. She must be seven, eight now.
Anakin has been the subject of my most secret, most intense fantasies for years. Tall, strong, nurturing, with a quiet talent for piano. It’s stupid, I know, but on my loneliest nights at college, I think about him anyway.
Before I left for school, he was constant: weekly dinners, accidental mail mix-ups, summer barbecues. Anakin comforted me when that stupid boy broke up with me. He’s been there for the majority of my most embarrassing moments. He’s lent me sugar for god's sake. He’s always kind. Always present. Always careful with me in ways I didn’t know I craved.
“Uh, yeah… what time? I could probably make it,” I say, trying to sound casual.
He looks at me sharply. “Who are you speaking t—”
“Sorry, sir,” I cut in, sweetly, masking the rush of nerves. I spin on my heel to force eye contact. “Do you know what time he’ll need me?”
“Now… until about…” He flicks his wrist, gold watch catching the light. “Ten p.m.?”
“Okay, I can do that. I’ll get changed and head over.”
He studies me once more, then turns and leaves. I let out a shaky breath. Dad has exacting standards. The Colonel’s daughter must be polite, well-mannered, and respectful at all times. Being home reminds me of every little slip I’ve made and every way I’ve fallen short. I suppress a sigh.
Anakin answers the door before I even knock. White tee, black slacks, big military boots untied. His hair is golden and curling, and his skin is glowing from obvious time spent in the sun. His biceps spill out of his tee and I have to look away.
Anakin radiates calm authority, the kind that makes the edges of the world feel soft.
“Hi, Mr. Skywalker,” I grin, automatic, habitual.
“Hi, love,” he answers. That warmth in his smile stirs something in my chest. Something I can’t name.
“How are you? How’s college? Tell me everything,” he says, pulling me into a hug that’s firm, grounding, protective. I feel it through me, and my chest tightens.
“I’m good,” I laugh softly. “The library's basically my second home. My roommate’s a nightmare, but-”
He nods at all the right places, groans dramatically at the drama I share, and leans against the counter like he has all the time in the world for me. Golden curls falling over his forehead, chin propped on his hand, eyes fixed on me like I’m the most interesting thing he’s heard all week. My hand twitches with the stupid urge to tuck a stray curl back into place.
“You’re taking care of yourself, though?” he asks gently. “Not getting into any trouble?”
I flush. “No- no, sir. Nothing.”
“Good… oh, shit! The time!”
“Oh, I’m sorry for holding you up, Mr. Skywalker. You could’ve told me to stop talking-”
“Don’t be ridiculous.” He smiles, soft but intense, a quiet kind of watchfulness. “I have to head off. I’ll be back around ten. Ahsoka’s in her room. Just call if there are any problems.”
He steps around me, boots clunking softly, and presses a quick kiss to the top of my head. “Be good. No boys over, okay?” He winks.
I spin in my chair, trying to shake it off, but the warmth of his attention lingers. Protective. Steady. Too real. He cares so deeply for everything around him, this is evident in the ‘saber framed on wall above the stairs, scratched and worn from years of fighting, but still shining; the white coffee mug with a smeary painting of a little girl standing hand-in-hand with her dad that sits next to the sink waiting to be washed; the boots sitting on the rack by the door- a spare pair of Anakins and a pair that looks like they’d fit the small girl upstairs.
I spin on my chair and wave goodbye to Anakin as he lingers on one last glance at me through the threshold. My thoughts play around with his stare, his eyes deep and dark and a glorious shade of brown, imagining him in various different scenarios where he could be peering down at me like that. He’s so big , I bet he’d just, like, fully encompass me.
“Hey, ‘Soka!” I sing-song up the stairs, shaking my head. He’s my dad’s best friend. He’s my neighbor . That’s… so fucked.
I’m sitting on Anakin’s couch when headlights slice across the room, sliding into the driveway. My legs swing down to rest on the floor instead of the cushion beside me. I take a breath, steadying myself, but it doesn’t quite reach my chest.
“Hey,” he says softly as he steps through the front door, his voice like warm honey, “sorry I’m so late.”
He spins to close the door behind him, keeping the mosquitoes out, and for a moment, I catch the faint stiffness in his shoulders. My eyes flick to the kitchen clock- 10:25 p.m.- and a small smile tugs at my lips.
“What? Twenty-five minutes late? I’m glad you went out and had fun, Mr. Skywalker,” I tease, watching him shrug off his jacket and drop his keys on the bench.
Something in him seems… taut. Standoffish. Like something’s shadowed him. His shirt is rumpled, his usually perfect curls loose, and… lipstick on his collar? My stomach flips, and a part of me feels that same old pang of longing I’ve carried since I was sixteen, the ache of wanting someone who can’t be mine.
“How was Ahsoka? Not too much trouble?” His voice has a subtle edge beneath its calm, a worry that always seems to settle heavier on me than it should. I notice the tension in his jaw, the slight narrowing of his eyes, and for an instant, I realise he’s scanning me too- not just asking about her.
“She was an angel. Couldn’t ask for a better kid to hang out with,” I gush, thinking of the eight-year-old upstairs tucked into bed.
Ahsoka is incredible. Soccer captain, top of her class (though how valid that is at eight, I don’t know), almost bilingual, endlessly bright and doting toward her father. And yet, as I glance at him, I feel that strange pang: I want to be the one he watches like that. I want that careful attention, the same protection, the same gentle intensity. But he’s Anakin. My dad’s best friend. That’s all he’s ever going to be.
The kitchen falls quiet, every small sound magnified- the clink of mugs, the hum of the fridge, the faint creak of the floorboards upstairs. His forced smile and slight nod, the tilt of his head, the way he watches me- every gesture is full of care, but layered with an unspoken tension I can’t read. My chest tightens.
“C’mon, I’ll make sure you get home,” he says, inclining his head, curls falling in the golden kitchen light. The way he stands there- strong, steady, vigilant- makes me ache in a way that’s confusing and sharp. Protective, yes. Fatherly, yes. And somewhere in that combination, I feel the echo of everything I’ve ever wanted but could never admit.
Stepping into the warm night, I can feel his gaze following me, and it’s almost impossible to walk without imagining what it would be like if that care- his entire being- was just for me. The street is empty, silent but alive with the summer breeze. Every step makes my chest tighten, that familiar ache of longing mingling with comfort.
I try to tell myself: he’s just Anakin. Neighbor. Dad’s best friend. But my hands fidget with my bag strap, my stomach twists, and I can’t stop the thought that maybe, just maybe, he would notice me the way I’ve always noticed him- if I were small enough, quiet enough, willing enough.
The porch light is still on when I glance back. He hasn’t moved. Solid. Watching. Waiting. Silent. And my chest hitches with that strange mix of yearning and gratitude, that longing I’ve carried through every late night, every lonely evening at college.
By the time I reach my door, the tension in the night feels almost alive. I fumble with the lock, my heart hammering. He’s still there, still steady, still protective, and it makes me want to collapse into him and let myself be small, wanted, cared for. But I can’t. I shouldn’t.
I step inside and lean against the door, exhaling slowly. I watch that golden rectangle of light spill across his lawn through the window, a quiet promise that he’s still there. Protective. Steady. Watching. And I ache, because I want more. I want to be the one he notices like Ahsoka. I want to be held, watched over, and cared for with that same intensity. But he’s Anakin. And the tension between what I want and what I can't have- between what he can give and what I need- hangs heavy in the warm summer air.
The night hums around me. The leaves whisper. Somewhere out there, I know he’s watching. Always keeping me safe. And that knowledge makes the night both impossibly tender and impossibly electric.