Work Text:
"Oh, thank god.”
Padmé exhales the second she finds another living, breathing human being in the building—three floors down from her office, tucked into a dim little room.
He’s slouched so far back in his chair she half-expects him to tip over if she breathes too hard. A pencil is wedged between his teeth, chewed to hell, and his attention is locked on the glow of his monitor. He doesn’t even look up when she steps inside.
"Hey,” she tries.
Nothing.
Padmé blinks, then clears her throat. "Uh—do you think you could maybe print something for me real quick? My printer has been giving me trouble.”
Still no reaction. Just the steady click of keys, like she isn’t even there.
Then, without lifting his gaze, he says dryly, "Have you tried turning it off and then on again?”
Padmé stops dead. Heat crawls up her neck, equal parts mortification and irritation—except her mouth betrays her, twitching like it wants to smile.
"Are you making fun of me?” she asks, voice flat.
That finally does it.
He glances up, pushing messy curls off his forehead, and Padmé is hit with a startling pair of bright blue eyes—sharp, amused, and very awake for someone who looks half-asleep. Recognition flickers across his face for half a second before it melts into something that’s definitely, absolutely enjoying itself.
"Of course not,” he says.
It’s the kind of of course not that is clearly a yes.
Padmé folds her arms. "Right.”
His grin holds, but his tone shifts—only slightly—into something closer to professional. "You know this is what we have the help desk for, right?”
"It’s seven,” she says, gesturing vaguely at the empty hallway outside. "They’re gone. Everyone’s gone.”
"Oh.” His smile widens like this is the best news he’s had all day. "Well, that changes things.” He leans forward, chair legs creaking as they finally come down to earth. "Send it over.”
Padmé stares at him. "What?”
He gives her a look—bemused, almost pitying—that makes her feel, briefly, like she’s wandered into the wrong department with her badge on backwards.
Instead of saying whatever snarky thing is clearly on the tip of his tongue, he reaches into his desk drawer and rummages around. A beat later, he pulls out a small business card and holds it out between two fingers, wiggling it like he’s coaxing a skittish animal.
"Here.”
"Oh.” Padmé shifts her laptop awkwardly under her arm, sets it on the edge of his desk, and drags a chair closer. She takes the card and glances down.
Anakin Skywalker
Research and Development
She’s almost certain she’s seen the name before—maybe attached to an email chain, maybe on a hiring packet that landed on her desk months ago. He looks young enough that it would track.
Curious, she looks up again—
—and finds him already watching her.
Not casually, either. Like he’s measuring her expression. Like he’s waiting to see what she does with the information.
Padmé clears her throat and breaks the moment on purpose. "Right.”
She types in the email address from the card, attaches the file, and hits send. The little swoosh is satisfying.
Anakin’s eyes flick to his screen. His fingers move fast, easy, the kind of muscle memory that comes from living at a keyboard. The printer in the corner whirs to life with a quiet hum.
Then he freezes.
His gaze drops to the email header, and he reads it out loud like it’s a curse.
"Padmé Amidala.”
He groans and lets his head fall back against the chair.
"Oh, great,” he mutters. "I just made fun of my boss.”
Padmé’s arms slide back across her chest, but now there’s a proper smile tugging at her mouth. "So you were making fun of me.”
He winces, eyes squeezed shut like he’s bracing for impact. When he opens them again, he looks… honestly panicked. Which, after the day she’s had, is almost charming.
"In my defense,” he says, rubbing the back of his neck, "I didn’t know I was making fun of… you.”
Padmé tilts her head, deciding immediately she’s going to enjoy this. "Are you always this charming with your superiors?”
He pushes up from his chair with a dramatic little groan and crosses the room toward the printer as it spits out pages. "You’re not gonna let this go, are you?”
"Depends.” Padmé crosses her legs, settling into the chair like she has nowhere else to be. "Are you going to make it up to me?”
He pauses mid-step and looks back, eyebrows raised. "I could offer my most sincere apologies.” Then, a beat, as if he’s considering. "Or tech support for printer issues for… let’s say a year.”
He scoops the papers from the tray and turns with an exaggerated flourish, holding them out like she’s a queen and he’s some ridiculous knight.
"Your documents, m’lady.”
Padmé snorts, taking them. "I’m not sure what’s worse—your sense of humor, or the fact you think this counts as an apology.”
He shrugs like he’s helpless against his own personality. "Sorry, boss.”
"Padmé,” she corrects, because she’s on a first-name basis with half the company and she refuses to be "boss” to a man who just said m’lady without shame.
"Padmé,” he repeats, quieter, like he’s testing it. Then he nods toward himself. "I’m Anakin.”
"I know.” She flicks his business card at him, and the corner of his mouth quirks up as whatever awkwardness had threatened to settle between them disappears.
He clears his throat, leaning back against the edge of his desk. "So what’s so urgent it couldn’t wait for a working printer in the morning?”
"That is classified,” she says smoothly, tapping the stack of paper against her palm.
Anakin’s unimpressed eyebrow lifts.
Padmé breaks first with a sigh. "Fine. They’re just notes for a board meeting tomorrow morning.”
"Ah.” He nods, understanding dawning. "The glamorous life of an executive.”
"You make it sound more exciting than it is.”
"I bet it’s still more interesting than what I deal with.” He gestures toward his screens—multiple monitors filled with scrolling code, graphs, and something that looks like a system diagram. "Trust me.”
Padmé makes a face. "I wouldn’t know what any of that means even if you explained it in fourth-grader terms.”
Anakin snorts, like she’s said something genuinely funny.
She gathers the papers against her side and stands, suddenly aware her shoulders feel lighter than they did five minutes ago. "Do you work late a lot?”
"Yeah.” He shrugs. "I like the quiet.” Then, like he can’t help himself, he adds, almost sheepishly, "And I oversleep a lot. I probably shouldn’t be admitting that to you.”
"Definitely not,” Padmé says, deadpan. "I’ll expect your resignation on my desk tomorrow morning.”
His grin flashes, bright and quick.
Padmé steps around the chair and heads for the door. "I appreciate the help tonight. Not sure what I would’ve done if I hadn’t found you.”
"Oh, you would’ve figured something out,” he says easily. "You seem pretty resourceful.”
"Flattery?” Padmé asks, pausing at the doorway.
"Observation,” he replies, then lets his smile sharpen just a touch. "Although if it helps me recover from teasing my boss, then sure. Flattery.”
Padmé laughs—an actual laugh, surprising in the quiet of an empty office. It’s been a long day, and she hadn’t realized how badly she needed something that didn’t feel like a problem she had to solve.
"Well,” she says, turning to go, "you’re officially forgiven. But don’t think I’ll forget about my year of tech support.”
"Wouldn’t dream of it,” Anakin says. "Did I mention it comes with a lot of complaining?”
"Good night, Anakin,” she calls over her shoulder, still smiling.
"Good night, Padmé,” he answers, and she can feel his eyes on her until the door clicks shut behind her.
Something completely unlike her gets the better of her three days later.
Padmé sits at her desk with a perfectly functional printer behind her. Tapping her fingers lightly against the smooth surface of her desk, her eyes flicker back and forth on her computer screen, hovering over the print button for a second before flicking back to her email.
To: Anakin Skywalker
Subject: Printer help (again)
📎 1 Attachment
Hi Anakin,
Hate to cash in on your "one year of tech support” this quickly, but could you help me out with this?
Also—Odd question, have you tried the Italian place across the street?
Padmé exhales, leans back, and stares at the ceiling for half a second.
This is ridiculous. She doesn’t need help. She needs to stop manufacturing excuses to talk to the guy from R&D because he made her laugh once when she was exhausted and the office was empty.
But that’s the problem: it was easy. It had felt… normal, in a way her days rarely do. No pressure. No posturing. Just a conversation that didn’t ask anything from her.
Before she can overthink it into oblivion, she hits send.
Instant regret follows
He’s going to think she’s incompetent or—worse—needy.
Her fingers start up again, tapping faster. She tries to refocus on the documents in front of her. She makes it almost thirty seconds before her inbox pings.
From: Anakin Skywalker
Subject: RE: Printer help (again)
sure. send it and i’ll have it ready whenever you want to grab it
also yes—best lasagna around here
A smile breaks across her face at his casual response.
"Dormé,” she calls, already turning in her chair.
Dormé appears in the doorway. "You’re smiling,” she says, immediately suspicious. "Should I be concerned?”
"Can you order lunch from the Italian place across the street?” Padmé asks, reaching for nonchalance and landing somewhere near too casual. "Get two lasagnas.”
Dormé’s brows lift. "Two?”
Padmé fixes her with a look. "Don’t do that.”
Dormé leans against the frame, grin widening. "I’m not doing anything. I’m just observing that you don’t even like leftovers.”
"I’m busy,” Padmé says, because it’s the only defense she has.
"Mm-hm.” Dormé pushes off the frame. "Fine. Two lasagnas. For your… totally normal lunch.”
She’s still smirking when she disappears down the hall.
Padmé turns back to her desk, exhales, when another ping from her inbox pulls her attention.
From: Anakin Skywalker
Subject: RE: Printer Help (Again)
Waiting on your pickup. or is this a test to see if i’ll deliver?
She bites her lip to suppress a smile before typing back.
To: Anakin Skywalker
Subject: RE: Printer help (again)
If you’re offering delivery, I won’t fight you. I’m buried up here today.
I’ll owe you.
She hits send and immediately wonders if that sounded too obvious. Too open-ended. Too—
A response comes almost at once.
From: Anakin Skywalker
Subject: RE: Printer help (again)
dangerous thing to tell me. be there in ten
Padmé shakes her head, amused despite herself. She checks the clock. Dormé should be back any minute.
Right on cue, the door opens and Dormé steps in with a takeout bag swinging from one hand.
"Delivery,” Dormé announces, setting it on Padmé’s desk. "Anything else, Your Highness?”
Padmé shoots her a warning look.
Dormé’s grin only sharpens. "I’ll be gone,” she says, backing toward the door. "But I’ll be nearby if you suddenly need… emotional support. Or a witness.”
"Dormé.”
"I’m leaving,” she sings, and vanishes before Padmé can throw something at her.
Padmé pulls out the containers and arranges them with unnecessary care—two forks, napkins, a quick straightening of the desk like this is a meeting and not her making absolutely questionable choices.
A knock sounds.
"Come in,” she calls.
Anakin steps into her office with a stack of papers in hand. He looks like he was halfway through something—shirt sleeves pushed up, curls slightly messier than last time, pencil tucked behind his ear like he forgot it was there. His gaze drops to the food spread across her desk and he pauses.
"…Did I walk into lunch, or did you plan this because I can print?”
Padmé takes the papers from him, calm as if this is the most normal thing in the world. "Both can be true.”
He huffs a laugh, setting his hand on the back of the chair across from her desk but not sitting yet. "This is what you meant by 'I’ll owe you.’”
"Yes. Unless you'd rather I retract my offer?"
That gets a real smile out of him. "I wouldn't dream of it." He sinks into the chair. "You didn’t have to do this, though."
"I know.” She slides one of the containers toward him. "But you rescued me the other night, so. Eat.”
He looks up at her for a beat—something a little quieter in his expression now, less teasing—and then he opens the container.
Padmé relaxes in a way she hadn’t realized she was holding herself tight. They eat, trading small talk that doesn’t really feel like small talk.
"Are you off for the holidays?” Padmé asks, because it feels like the safest possible question. Neutral. Normal. The kind of thing people say in hallways and elevators when December starts creeping up on everyone.
Anakin nods around a bite. "Yeah,” he says once he swallows. "I’m heading home for a few days. Visiting my mom.”
"Oh.” Padmé keeps her tone light, easy, like this is nothing. Like she isn’t immediately curious in a way she probably shouldn’t be. "Where’s home?”
She hopes it lands like small talk. Anakin doesn’t hesitate. "Tatooine.”
Padmé blinks. "Tatooine?”
"Mm-hm.” He spears another bite onto his fork, casual as anything. "Tiny place. And before you ask—no, it’s not cute.” His mouth tilts, like he’s preemptively annoyed at the idea of her romanticizing it. "It’s dust and heat and people who have known you since you were five, so they still talk to you like you’re five.”
Padmé lets out a quiet laugh, mostly because it’s either that or stare at him like she’s stunned.
"My mom remarried there,” he adds, like he’s continuing a thought he started ten minutes ago instead of offering up pieces of his life with no prompting. "She loves it. Doesn’t want to move. Says it’s peaceful.”
"And you don’t agree,” Padmé guesses.
Anakin shrugs, the motion loose, practiced. "It’s not really my favorite. Never has been.” He takes another bite, then says, almost matter-of-fact, "But she’s my mom, so. I go.”
She’s surprised by how much he gives her so easily. Like he doesn’t think twice about it.
Padmé reaches for her water, buying herself a second to recalibrate. "How long are you there?”
Anakin hums. "A week. Enough for her to feed me until I regret being born and for my stepdad to rope me into all the projects Owen doesn’t feel like helping with.” He doesn’t clarify who Owen is. Instead, he glances up at her, eyes amused. "You?”
Padmé exhales, grateful for the pivot. "I’ll probably do the polite circuit. Family, a few mandatory appearances, try not to let anyone ask me about work.”
He snorts. "Good luck with that.”
"Thank you,” she says, dry. "Truly inspiring.”
"Are you going to be gone for New Year’s too then?” Padmé asks.
Anakin’s eyes flick up. "And miss the office party?” He gives a dramatic, fake scoff, like she’s accused him of something unforgivable. "I wouldn’t dare.”
Padmé’s face does something halfway between a grimace and a smile. "You’re joking.”
He grins around another bite. "A little.”
"Good,” she says, because the thought of that party makes her tired in a very specific way. "Because I hate the office party.”
That earns her his full attention. "Yeah?”
Padmé exhales, setting her fork down with more care than necessary. "It’s my sixth one,” she says. "And somehow—somehow—it always becomes my problem.”
Anakin’s brow lifts. "Your problem how?”
"Decorations,” Padmé starts, ticking it off on her fingers. "Organizing. Calling vendors when someone 'forgets’ at the last minute. Fixing whatever falls apart day-of.” She pauses. "And then I get rewarded by spending three hours being trapped in conversations with sixty-year-old men who can’t decide if they want to talk about quarterly projections or stare down my dress.”
The words come out sharper than she means them to—honest, clipped, a little too real for lunchtime small talk—but she’s past pretending the whole thing is fun.
Anakin’s expression shifts. The grin fades into something flatter, darker around the edges. He doesn’t say anything for a second, like he’s choosing what kind of reaction won’t make her feel worse.
"That’s… gross,” he says finally, simply.
Padmé gives a small, humorless huff.
"Do you have to be there the whole time?”
"I should,” Padmé says, already tired. "Technically. It’s 'good visibility.’ It’s also good visibility for everyone who thinks the bar is an excuse to forget how to act like a human being.”
"So,” he says, "you need a buffer.”
Padmé blinks. "A buffer.”
"A person you can point at and go, 'Sorry, can’t talk, I’m in the middle of something,’” he explains, like it’s obvious. "Someone to rescue you when you get cornered. Someone to make it less… that.”
Padmé’s eyebrows lift, skeptical, but her mouth twitches. "Are you volunteering?”
Anakin shrugs, too casual for what it is. "Maybe."
Padmé looks at him for a beat, surprised again by how easily he slides into helpful—not performative, not self-important. Just matter-of-fact.
"You don’t even know what you’re offering,” she says.
He grins. "I’m in R&D. I can handle unknown variables.”
Over the next few days, it becomes a thing.
Padmé stops by R&D with a question that could’ve been an email.
Sometimes she leaves with a new shortcut in her brain and the faint suspicion she’d come down there for a different reason entirely.
He starts appearing outside her office, too—never lingering long, never making it obvious. Just a knock, the corner of his shoulder in her doorway, a quick, "Hey, got a sec?” like he belongs there.
Another morning, she walks into his office with her coffee in hand and finds him half-asleep at his monitor, hair a mess, pencil tucked behind his ear. He doesn’t even look up when she clears her throat.
"Is this where I submit a ticket?” she asks.
He blinks, eyes tracking up to her, and the recognition hits a beat later. "Oh,” he says, voice rough with sleep. Then, more awake: "You’re the ticket.”
Padmé should not laugh at that. She does anyway.
And then there are lunches—short ones, never officially scheduled, always somehow timed perfectly.
On one of those days, she’s mid-bite when Anakin’s gaze flicks over her shoulder.
He nods toward the corner of her office.
"Do you want me to take a look at it?” he asks, chin tipping at her printer.
Padmé almost chokes on her chicken.
"What—no.” The word comes out too fast. Too loud. She swallows hard, coughs once, and tries to recover. "I mean. No, thank you. I already asked IT, and they said they’ll take a look at it.”
Anakin goes still for a second, fork paused halfway to his mouth. His eyes narrow—not suspicious, exactly. Curious. Like he’s clocked the panic and is letting it sit between them just long enough to see if she’ll explain herself.
"You sure?” he asks, calm as ever. "I’m pretty good at fixing things.” A beat, then, with a faint edge of amusement: "Besides, IT might take a while.”
Padmé shakes her head quickly, swallowing again even though she’s already cleared the bite. "No need. Really. It’s… not that urgent.”
His mouth twitches like he’s biting back a comment. He leans back in the chair, hands lifted in surrender.
"Alright,” he says. "If you say so.”
Then one morning, he shows up in her doorway with a paper cup in his hand.
Padmé looks up from her screen, already mid-sentence in her head, and stops.
Anakin sets the cup on the corner of her desk. "I walked past the café you like,” he says, tone deliberately casual. "Thought you might want this.”
Padmé stares at it—coffee, exactly how she takes it, which should bother her more than it does.
After that, the emails start to feel absurd.
They message constantly—short, dry lines and quick questions and occasional complaints about meetings and code and whatever nonsense the building is throwing at them that day. They see each other most days anyway. Half the time, she’s reading his tone in the text like she can hear him.
She prints her number on a sticky note—work phone, thank you very much—and walks it down to R&D herself.
Anakin looks up when she enters, like always, eyes sharpening with interest. "You’re here,” he says, as if that’s unexpected even though she’s been here practically every day this week.
"I’m saving us both from another email chain,” Padmé replies, and drops the sticky note on his desk.
Anakin glances down, then back up. "Is this—”
"My number,” she says, before he can make it weird. "For work. Because I’m tired of sending emails when we’re clearly going to talk every day anyway.”
"Okay,” he says. "I’ll be responsible with it.”
"You won’t,” Padmé says, already turning to leave.
Anakin’s laugh follows her to the door. "No,” he agrees easily. "Probably not.”
By December twenty-second, Anakin is gone.
He stops by her office the afternoon before—December twenty-first—like it’s just another pass through her doorway, another quick interruption in the middle of her day. Except he looks a little too put-together for R&D. Jacket on, bag slung over one shoulder, hair tamed in a way that makes her immediately suspicious.
Padmé looks up from her laptop. "You’re leaving.”
"Sharp,” he says, and there’s a flicker of something pleased in his eyes. "Yeah. Flight’s early.”
She sets her pen down, trying for casual and landing somewhere just shy of it. "So you’ll be—what, off the grid for the holidays?”
"Not off the grid,” Anakin says. "Just… in Tatooine.” He shifts his bag higher on his shoulder. "I’ll see you in a week.”
"A week,” Padmé repeats, and she hates that it sounds like she’s doing the math.
Anakin’s mouth tilts, as if he hears it too.
"Well,” she says, smoothing the edge of the papers on her desk because her hands need something to do, "have fun with your family.”
He snorts, quiet. "Fun’s a strong word.”
Padmé rolls her eyes. "Anakin.”
"I’m going,” he says, like that’s the important part. He looks at her for a beat, then adds, easier, "Text me if you need a break from yours.”
And then he’s gone, and it’s… fine. It’s normal. People leave for the holidays. The building empties out. Everyone gets quiet and distracted and half checked-out.
Except—
Padmé doesn’t realize how much space he’s been taking up until he isn’t in it anymore.
The next morning, December twenty-second, she half-expects him to appear anyway.
Nothing.
His office is empty when she passes it.
Padmé goes back upstairs and tells herself it’s fine.
But the office feels colder without him. In the way the days stretch. In the way she realizes she’d started looking forward to the stupid little interruptions. The relief of them. How easy it had become to smile in the middle of a week that never gives her a reason to.
She does not miss him. That would be ridiculous.
Christmas Eve and Christmas Day give her a break from the building. She’s out—family obligations, the usual dance of appearances and carefully timed exits. She’s good at it. She’s always been good at it. But somewhere in the middle of it she catches herself thinking about him—Text me if you need a break—and it’s almost annoying how much she wants to take him up on it.
She doesn’t.
She tells herself she doesn’t need to.
By the twenty-sixth, she’s back in the office.
"A little more to the—”
"Padmé,” Anakin cuts in, voice strained in the specific way of a man trying very hard not to fall off a ladder, "I swear to god if you tell me 'a little more to the left’ one more time—”
Padmé doesn’t even flinch. She just tilts her head, eyes narrowed in concentration as she watches him wrestle with a string of lights that absolutely refuses to cooperate.
"—you’ll what?” she supplies sweetly, hands folded in front of her like she isn’t the one who dragged him into this.
Anakin is halfway up a ladder in the lobby, one arm hooked around it while the other fights with the garland. He’s got his sleeves pushed up, hair already falling out of whatever attempt he made to look professional this morning, and there’s a faint pink in his cheeks that might be exertion—or might be the fact that she’s standing directly beneath him giving instructions like a foreman.
Dormé, standing beside Padmé with a coffee in hand, makes a contemplative sound. "Honestly,” she says, dead serious, "why haven’t we thought about getting ourselves a cute tech guy for this before?”
Padmé shoots her a look. Dormé’s face stays perfectly innocent, except for the smug curve of her mouth.
Anakin pauses mid-adjustment and glances down, eyes flicking between them. "I’m sorry—what?”
Dormé takes a sip of her coffee like she has all the time in the world. "I’m just saying,” she continues, unbothered. "Every year, we’re up here sweating in heels, arguing with a balloon arch, and calling vendors who pretend they’ve never heard of us. Meanwhile, there are perfectly capable men with functional upper body strength just… roaming the building.”
Anakin snorts.
Padmé points at him without looking away from the lights. "Right there. A little more to the—”
"Don’t,” Anakin warns immediately, shifting his weight on the ladder. "Don’t you dare.”
Padmé’s lips twitch. She tries for stern and fails. "Fine. Not left. Just… adjust it so the middle doesn’t droop like it’s given up on life.”
Anakin exhales through his nose, but he does it—nudging the garland up, smoothing the lights until they sit evenly along the edge of the beam.
Dormé watches, brows raised. "Look at that,” she murmurs. "Competent and cooperative. That’s rare.”
"Cooperative?” Anakin echoes, offended. "I was blackmailed.”
"You were asked,” Padmé corrects.
"You ambushed me,” he says, leaning down just enough to look at her properly from the ladder.
Padmé shrugs, entirely unrepentant. "You told me to text you if I needed a break.”
Dormé makes an oh? noise into her coffee.
Anakin’s eyes narrow. "Decorating is a break?”
"It is compared to my normal week,” Padmé says.
Dormé, of course, notices. Dormé always notices.
"So,” she says lightly, "did you two have a nice holiday? Miss each other terribly? Exchange heartfelt messages?”
Padmé doesn’t move, but she can feel heat climb into her cheeks. "Dormé.”
Anakin lets out a quiet laugh from above them, like he’s trying not to. "We did not exchange heartfelt messages,” he says.
Dormé’s eyes flick to Padmé. "That’s not a no.”
Padmé gives her a look that should be warning enough to end the conversation.
Dormé ignores it completely.
Above them, Anakin finally hooks the lights into place with a satisfied little click, then shifts his gaze down to Padmé like he’s waiting for judgment.
"Well?” he asks. "Is it acceptable, or are you going to tell me a little more to the—”
Padmé squints, deliberate. "Actually…”
Anakin closes his eyes. "I hate you.”
Padmé smiles, slow and bright. "A little more to the right.”
Dormé chokes on her coffee, laughing into her sleeve.
Anakin opens one eye, scowling. "You’re enjoying this.”
Padmé doesn’t deny it. "You’re doing great,” she says, and she means it—about the lights, about the ladder, about the fact that he came back and, apparently, stepped right back into her orbit like he never left.
By the time they finish, the grand lobby looks… tolerable. Almost good, if Padmé’s being generous.
And the building is dead quiet.
Everyone else got their half day and ran for it hours ago, leaving the three of them.
Padmé checks her phone. "Okay. I’m going to call my Uber and head home. Change, pretend I’m excited to be perceived for four hours—”
"You’re Ubering?” Anakin interrupts, brows knitting.
Padmé glances up. "Yeah.”
"Why?” he asks, like it’s genuinely confusing.
"My car’s in the shop,” she says. "It’s been in the shop for days. I’m trying not to commit a crime about it.”
Anakin snorts. "Okay. I’ll drop you off on my way.”
Padmé blinks. "What?”
"I’ll drop you off,” he repeats, like she’s the one making it complicated. "And then I’ll pick you back up when I come back for the party.”
Dormé sips her coffee very slowly, eyes firmly on the corner of the room like she’s suddenly fascinated by drywall.
Padmé shakes her head, immediate reflex. "Anakin, you don’t have to do that.”
He looks at her like she’s missed something obvious. "It’s literally no problem.”
"It’s out of your way—”
"It’s not,” he cuts in, easy. "I’m going back to my apartment anyway. You’re… somewhere on the way.” He pauses, mouth twitching. "Unless you live in another state.”
Dormé finally lowers her cup. "This is very generous of you,” she says, tone mild in the way that means she’s absolutely not being mild.
Anakin flicks a glance at her. "It’s not a big deal.”
"Mhm,” Dormé hums, not agreeing or disagreeing—just filing it away.
Padmé hesitates, fingers tightening around her phone for a second. She could insist. She should insist. It’s cleaner that way. It’s easier.
But she’s tired, and it’s cold out, and she can already feel the weight of the party waiting for her tonight. And Anakin is standing there offering something simple like it’s nothing.
Padmé exhales. "Fine,” she says, grudging. "If you’re sure.”
Anakin’s grin comes quick. "I’m sure.”
Padmé can practically hear Dormé’s thoughts.
Anakin picks up his jacket from the back of a chair. "Come on,” he says, nodding toward the hallway. "Before you change your mind and call the world’s most overpriced Uber.”
Padmé follows, shaking her head, muttering, "This is not a date,” mostly to herself.
Anakin glances over his shoulder. "What was that?”
"Nothing,” Padmé says quickly.
Dormé’s quiet little laugh trails behind them as they head out into the empty corridor.
Anakin’s car is black and low to the ground.
Padmé doesn’t get close enough to catch the logo before he’s already unlocking it, and even if she did, she wouldn’t have known what she was looking at. Cars aren’t her thing. She knows reliable and expensive and my assistant said this one is good. That’s about it.
This one looks… fast.
She hesitates for half a second before she opens the passenger door.
"This is… nice,” she says as she fastens her seatbelt.
Anakin pulls out of the parking lot, one hand on the wheel, the other already reaching for the heater controls. "It’s just a car.”
Padmé gives him a look. "Sure.”
He glances at her, mouth twitching. "Okay. It’s a little nice.”
The drive should feel awkward. It doesn’t.
They’ve been doing this for weeks—talking in hallways, leaning over doorframes, eating lunch together.
Conversation with him doesn’t require effort anymore. It just happens.
He asks what she’s wearing tonight like it’s a normal question, and she answers without thinking. She asks how far behind he is on work and he groans theatrically, listing off projects like she’s personally responsible for all of them. He complains about the balloon arch again. She tells him the lights look good and he makes a sound like he’s refusing to accept the compliment.
They’re halfway to her place when Padmé shifts in her seat, adjusting her coat, and her gaze drifts—casual, thoughtless—over the dashboard, the console, the clean lines of the interior.
Then, without meaning to, she looks into the back.
And stops.
There’s a car seat.
A car seat. For a child.
Padmé’s brain hits a wall so hard she almost physically feels it.
Oh.
And then, immediately: What the fuck—
Her gaze flicks to Anakin’s profile—calm, relaxed, eyes on the road. Like there is nothing unusual about the fact that he has a car seat in the back of a black, fast-looking car that could probably outrun any speed limit.
Padmé forces her expression to stay neutral. Forces her eyes forward. Forces her mouth not to make whatever sound her thoughts are trying to push out.
A kid?
No. That can’t be right. He’s… young. He’s very young. She realizes abruptly she doesn’t actually know how young—only that he looks it, that he acts like it sometimes in the way he shrugs off things she’d overthink for hours.
But a car seat is… a car seat.
Maybe it’s for a little sibling? Except his mom lives in Tatooine, and he’d said she’d remarried there, wasn’t moving. That doesn’t sound like a "drop the kid off at daycare” situation.
A niece? A nephew? A friend’s kid he helps with?
Padmé’s fingers tighten around her purse strap. She stares straight ahead, suddenly hyperaware of the fact that she is sitting in a man’s car and noticing details about his life she has absolutely no right to notice.
They are coworkers.
They are not—
Whatever this is.
So she doesn’t ask. She keeps her tone steady when she speaks again, lets the conversation keep moving like nothing has changed.
Anakin talks and she answers, nodding at the right places, laughing once, and all the while her mind keeps circling back like it’s stuck on a loop.
Car seat.
How old is he?
Ten minutes later, he’s pulling up in front of her townhouse.
Padmé pauses with her hand on the handle, glancing at him. "Thanks,” she says, because it’s the only normal thing she can say.
He shrugs, easy. "Text me when you’re ready. I’ll swing back.”
"Right,” Padmé murmurs.
She steps out into the cold, shuts the door, and stands on the sidewalk for half a beat as he pulls away. Padmé watches it disappear, then turns toward her front door.
Tells herself not to think about it.
She shuts the door behind her, kicks off her shoes, and sets her keys down.
The townhouse is quiet—warm, familiar, safe—and she uses that to her advantage. She goes through her routine on autopilot: hair, makeup, jewelry laid out with the kind of careful efficiency she’s built her whole life around.
Do not spiral, she tells herself.
So the guy she’s been… what, exactly? Flirting with. Talking to. Letting into her day in small, steady ways. So that guy might have a kid.
So what.
It doesn’t change anything. It shouldn’t. It’s not like this was ever going anywhere, anyway. She’s his boss. She’s older than him. And even if neither of those things were true, she knows how this works—she’s seen it enough times in enough boardrooms, watched the lines blur and snap back into place.
Besides, a kid implies other things.
A mom.
Which implies a girlfriend. Or—God—an actual wife. People get married young. People do all kinds of things young.
She pulls out the dress Dormé insisted on. The one that makes her look like she belongs at a party instead of in a board meeting. The one she’d agreed to because Dormé had looked at her over a latte and said, Trust me. It’s New Year’s.
An hour passes in a blur of last-minute fixes and standing too close to the mirror. She’s just finishing her lipstick when her phone buzzes.
A text.
Anakin: you ready?
Padmé stares at the screen for a beat longer than she needs to.
Her stomach does something annoyingly light.
She types back:
Padmé: Almost. Give me five minutes.
Then she sets the phone down, takes one last look at herself, and mutters, "This is fine,” like the universe has ever listened to her before.
His text comes through again just as she’s checking herself in the hallway mirror for the tenth time.
Anakin: outside
Padmé stares at it for a beat, then exhales like she can push the nerves out with her breath. She grabs her coat, her clutch, locks up, and steps out into the cold.
He’s leaning against his car at the curb like he’s been waiting there longer than two minutes. Black button-down, black dress pants—simple, sharp, unfairly good on him. His sleeves are rolled just slightly like he couldn’t stand to keep them perfect.
He looks up the second the door opens.
And there it is—his expression shifting, quick and unguarded, like he forgets he’s supposed to be casual.
"Hey,” Padmé says, because it’s all she can manage at first.
Anakin pushes off the car, eyes tracking over her in a slow sweep that makes her stomach tighten.
It feels… appreciative. Like he’s actually seeing her.
He reaches for the passenger door and opens it before she even gets there. "I’ve got it.”
Padmé pauses. "You’re doing the most.”
"Get in,” he says, but he’s smiling.
She steps closer, and as she passes him, his gaze catches hers and holds. Not long enough to be blatant. Too long to be nothing.
"You look…” He hesitates like he’s trying to find a safer word.
Padmé’s pulse kicks.
Anakin’s eyes flick to her mouth, then back up. "Beautiful,” he says quietly.
Padmé forgets how to breathe for a second. She slides into the seat before her face can betray her, and he closes the door gently.
By the time he gets in on his side, she’s managed to regain some of her composure.
"Thank you,” she says, aiming for steady. "You look… very corporate.”
Anakin snorts as he starts the engine. "I was told there would be important executives and social expectations.”
"Poor thing,” Padmé murmurs, and he glances over at her with a grin that says he knows exactly what he’s doing to her.
"Okay,” Padmé says, trying to keep her voice light—casual—like this is just another normal question between coworkers on New Year’s Eve. "I have to ask.”
Anakin glances at her. "Oh no.”
"Why do you have a car seat in the back?”
He doesn’t even blink.
"My daughter,” he replies easily.
Padmé’s mind goes completely blank.
Not confusion—just… static. A hard reset.
His daughter.
She turns her head toward him slowly, like maybe she misheard him, like maybe he said cousin or neighbor or borrowed it for a friend.
But Anakin just keeps driving, calm, one hand on the wheel, like he hasn’t just rearranged her entire understanding of him in a single sentence.
Padmé swallows. "You have a—” Her voice catches, and she forces it back into place. "A daughter.”
"Yeah,” he says, still casual. "I know. Surprise.”
Padmé stares at the road ahead, trying to make her face do something neutral. Trying to make her thoughts line up in a way that makes sense.
She hears herself ask, because she has to—because her brain won’t move forward without the detail.
"How old is she?”
Anakin smiles a little, the kind that softens his whole face without him meaning to. "Three,” he says.
Padmé blinks.
"Three,” she repeats, because her brain needs to hear it again to make it real.
"Yeah,” Anakin says.
Padmé keeps her eyes on the road ahead. If she looks at him, she’s going to make a face. If she makes a face, she’s going to feel like an idiot. If she feels like an idiot, she’s going to start spiraling, and she is not doing that in the passenger seat of his very-black, very-fast car.
Her throat works around a swallow.
"I—” Padmé starts, then stops, because she has no idea what the right sentence is. Congratulations? Oh my god? Sorry? None of those fit.
Anakin glances over at her again, quick. His hands stay steady on the wheel, but his mouth quirks like he can see the exact moment her composure locks up.
"You’re doing the thing,” he says.
"The thing?”
"Where you’re trying to find the correct response and it’s making your brain short-circuit.”
Padmé exhales through her nose. "I’m not short-circuiting.”
"Mhm.”
She turns her head a fraction, enough to give him a look. "I just… didn’t know.”
"I don’t usually lead with it,” he says, matter-of-fact. Then, like he realizes how that sounds, he adds, "Not because it’s a secret. It just…"
She gets it. "Does anyone at the office know?”
"A few people,” Anakin says. "Not a lot. It’s not exactly something I bring up at stand-up meetings.”
Padmé manages a small, dry sound that might be a laugh.
A beat of silence settles in—less awkward than it could be.
She tries to pick one safe question. Something neutral. Something that won’t cross a line.
"Where is she tonight?” Padmé asks carefully, eyes flicking toward the back seat again. The car seat sits there like an accusation.
"Home. She’s asleep already. My sister is with her. Ahsoka was watching her cartoons when I left."
Padmé huffs a laugh, despite herself. It’s easier to breathe when he’s making it easy.
He glances at her again, expression a little more serious now. "Are you… okay?”
The question lands gently, but it’s direct enough that Padmé feels her face heat.
"Yes,” she says quickly.
Anakin’s eyebrows lift, like he doesn’t fully buy it.
Padmé steadies her voice. "I’m just surprised. That’s all.”
He nods once, accepting that. Then he says, like he’s offering her an exit without making it dramatic, "If this makes tonight weird for you, tell me. I can drop you off and we can pretend I was never your unpaid decorator.”
Padmé turns toward him, startled. "No. It doesn’t—” She stops herself, exhales, and tries again. "It doesn’t make tonight weird. You didn’t do anything wrong.”
Anakin’s gaze lingers on her for a second—too intent, too aware—and then he looks back at the road.
"Okay,” he says simply.
Padmé swallows again, and the rest of the thoughts she’s been avoiding start pressing in anyway. A kid means history. A kid means someone else in his life, even if they’re not in his life. A kid means he’s been living a reality she hadn’t accounted for at all while she’s been—
She stops herself there. Hard.
Instead, she asks the only thing she can ask without stepping over the line.
"What’s she like?” Padmé says, trying to keep it casual.
Anakin’s expression changes so fast it almost startles her—his face softening in a way she hasn’t seen yet, like a light turning on behind his eyes.
He smiles, small and real. "Bossy,” he says immediately.
Padmé’s mouth quirks. "Shocking.”
"Very demanding,” he continues, clearly enjoying himself now. "Thinks she runs the house.”
"So… she takes after you.”
Anakin makes a sound of offense. "Excuse you. I’m a delight.”
Padmé looks out the window so she can smile without feeling like she’s giving him too much. "I’m sure you are.”
They drive the rest of the way with the city sliding past them, the conversation easing back into its familiar rhythm—but Padmé can feel the shift underneath it, a new fact sitting between them.
When the office building finally comes into view again—lit up, decorated, waiting—Anakin slows as he pulls into the lot.
He glances at her once more before he parks. "You good?”
Padmé forces herself to meet his eyes.
She nods. "I’m good.”
Anakin’s mouth curves. "Okay. Then let’s go suffer through the party.”
Padmé lets out a breath that almost sounds like a laugh. "Lead the way.”
And as he kills the engine and reaches for his door, Padmé catches herself looking—one more time—at the car seat in the back, like she’s trying to reconcile it with the man beside her.
She’s not sure she can yet.
Still, they walk in together.
The lobby is already loud—music bleeding through the doors, voices bouncing off the walls, the kind of forced cheer that always makes Padmé feel like she’s bracing for impact.
Padmé barely makes it three steps past the entrance before she gets intercepted.
"Padmé!” someone calls—one of the board members, already holding a drink, already smiling too wide. "There you are. I’ve been looking for you.”
Of course.
Padmé turns, professional smile snapping into place like armor. "Hi, Richard.”
Anakin slows beside her, and for a second she’s grateful—because his presence is anchoring, because she can feel the difference between entering alone and entering with someone who makes the room feel less sharp.
Richard’s gaze flicks over Anakin like he’s an accessory. "Oh, I didn’t realize you brought—”
Padmé cuts in smoothly, before Richard can decide to make it weird. "Anakin was helping with the decorations earlier.”
Anakin’s mouth twitches, like he’s fighting a laugh. He leans in closer—not close enough to be inappropriate, just enough that his voice lands only for her.
He smiles at her, slow and knowing.
Then he whispers: "Buffer."
Padmé’s stomach flips.
Anakin gives her a quick, almost ridiculous little salute, and slips away with the ease of someone who doesn’t get trapped in conversations he doesn’t want. He disappears into the crowd, headed toward a cluster of people Padmé assumes are R&D—because who else looks that tired while holding a drink?
Padmé turns back to Richard, already being pulled into the familiar quicksand of small talk.
Minutes pass. Then more minutes. Too many minutes.
She does the circuit—polite laughs, careful answers, dodging questions about next quarter, smiling through comments. She catches glimpses of Anakin across the room once or twice—laughing at something, shoulders relaxed, looking infuriatingly at home.
"Padmé,” a voice says—pleasant, entitled. "There you are.”
Padmé’s whole body goes subtly rigid.
An older man—white hair, flushed cheeks, expensive suit—smiles at her like he owns her time. His eyes drop for the briefest second in a way Padmé has learned to clock without reacting.
Padmé lets herself be guided away, posture perfect, expression composed—while somewhere across the room, she finds herself scanning for a black button-down and blue eyes like a lifeline.
It happens in the middle of a conversation she’s been trying to end for five minutes.
Her expression stays composed, but the second her gaze locks with Anakin’s over the crowd, something in her face slips.
A helpless, please kind of look.
Anakin’s posture changes immediately, like a switch flips. He doesn’t hesitate. He just starts moving.
He’s at her side in seconds, calm and polite and very clearly unbothered by the fact that he’s interrupting. His hand doesn’t touch her, but he steps close enough that his presence is unmistakable.
"Sorry,” he says smoothly, flashing the man an apologetic smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. "Can I steal her for a second?"
He doesn’t even bother coming up with an excuse.
The man blinks, thrown off just long enough for Padmé to take the out.
"Of course,” she says, already stepping away. "Excuse me.”
Anakin guides her through the crowd, angling them around clusters of people, away from the bar, away from the loudest part of the room. They end up near a quiet table tucked along the edge of the conference area, half-shadowed by a tall plant and a column. Not private, but close enough to breathe.
Padmé drops her shoulders the second they stop.
Anakin leans an elbow on the table, watching her. "How’s it going?”
Padmé lets her head tip back for a beat, eyes closing. "Horrible,” she groans.
Anakin’s mouth curves. "Yeah?”
"The usual,” she says, opening her eyes again. "Networking. Smiling until my face hurts. Men who think an open bar means they can forget basic manners.”
"You want me to—”
"It’s fine,” Padmé cuts in quickly, because she doesn’t actually want him starting something at a company event. She exhales, then adds, miserably, "And my feet hurt.”
That gets a soft laugh out of him—warm, like he’s relieved to be making her laugh.
Padmé hesitates, then decides she’s earned one honest question tonight.
"How come you didn’t bring a date?” she asks.
Anakin shrugs, casual. "I did.”
Padmé blinks. "You—”
"I brought you,” he says simply, like it’s obvious.
Her face warms instantly. Heat climbs into her cheeks before she can stop it.
"Anakin,” she says, sharp—but it comes out more flustered than stern.
He grins, entirely unrepentant. "In a professional way.”
Padmé opens her mouth, searching for a response that doesn’t sound like a teenager, and he beats her to it.
"How come you didn’t bring your husband?” he asks, genuinely curious.
Padmé freezes. "My— what?”
Anakin tilts his head, eyebrows knitting like he’s confused by her confusion. "Your husband.”
"I don’t have a husband,” Padmé says slowly.
Anakin’s expression shifts—surprise first, then a quick flash of something like oh, I messed up.
"Oh,” he says. "Sorry. I just… assumed.”
Padmé’s stomach drops in a familiar, irritated way. She’s heard some version of it from three different people tonight already. She’s tired. Her feet hurt. And she is not in the mood.
"What—” Padmé lets out a humorless laugh. "You assumed I should be married at twenty-nine?”
Anakin’s eyes widen immediately. "No, no.” He shakes his head, quick. "No, that’s not what I meant.”
Padmé’s brows lift. "Then what did you mean?”
He looks like he’s scrambling, which almost makes her feel bad. Almost.
"I just— Your name. On emails and stuff. You have two last names.”
Padmé’s annoyance pauses mid-stride. "Oh.”
She stares at him for a beat, then exhales, the sharp edge fading.
"It’s not a married name,” she says. "Naberrie is my family name. Amidala is—” she makes a small, helpless gesture "—long story.”
Anakin nods, accepting it without pushing. "Okay. Got it.”
Padmé’s mouth twitches despite herself. "For the record, I’m not offended you assumed I had a husband because of my name.”
"I’m still sorry,” he says, quieter.
Padmé tilts her head. "I am offended that everyone else assumes it because I’m standing here existing as a woman in a dress.”
Anakin’s jaw tightens again, the same quick protective irritation from earlier. "Yeah,” he says, flat. "That I get.”
Padmé looks at him—really looks—and the steady sincerity in his face makes something in her chest loosen.
She clears her throat, changing the subject before it turns into something more vulnerable than she can handle at a company party.
"Anyway,” she says, "thank you for the rescue.”
Anakin’s grin returns, softer this time. "Anytime.”
It’s fifteen minutes to midnight, and the party has hit that specific point where the music is louder than it needs to be and the laughter is a little too bright—people trying to convince themselves they’re having fun.
Padmé stays by the quiet table longer than she meant to.
Anakin leans his hip against the table, shoulders loose, watching her with that steady, intent focus that’s been getting harder to ignore. He glances down at her feet for a moment. "Your feet still hurting?”
"Yes,” Padmé says immediately, then lowers her voice. "If I take them off in here, Dormé will never forgive me.”
Anakin’s gaze slides past her shoulder, scanning the room. "Where is she?”
"Probably watching me from somewhere and enjoying this.”
Anakin looks back at her. "This?”
Padmé’s pulse ticks up, annoying and immediate. She lifts her chin, forcing calm. "This—me not being miserable for once.”
Anakin’s eyes hold hers. "You’re not miserable when you’re with me?”
It’s not teasing. Not exactly. It’s light, but there’s something underneath it now—something that feels like a question he’s not supposed to ask.
"You’re getting bold,” she says, trying to sound warning.
"I’m getting honest,” he counters, and then, like he realizes how that sounds, he adds, "Also bold. But mostly honest.”
Padmé should pivot. She should glance away, find an excuse, rejoin the crowd like a responsible executive.
Instead, she stays.
"Okay,” she says, lightly, "then be honest. Are you enjoying your role as my buffer?”
Anakin’s gaze drifts over her again—quick, controlled, but still too lingering to be innocent. "More than I should.”
Padmé feels her cheeks warm. "Anakin.”
He lifts his hands a little, like he’s surrendering. "Sorry. Did you want me to lie?”
"Sometimes,” Padmé says, and her voice comes out quieter than she expects. "Yes.”
He doesn’t. "You really do look incredible tonight."
"That’s an insane thing to say to your boss.”
Anakin’s grin flashes. "You told me to call you Padmé.”
"That doesn’t—”
"And you told me you hate this party,” he continues, voice low now. "So I’m trying to give you something else to focus on.”
Padmé’s pulse stutters. She forces herself to breathe evenly.
She tips her head, holding his gaze like she’s not affected. Like she’s not very aware of the fact that he’s so much taller than her even when he’s relaxed, that his attention on her feels heavier than a room full of strangers.
"Is it working?” he asks.
Padmé doesn’t answer right away. She glances past him at the crowd, the movement, the lights—then back at him, because the truth is she can barely hear any of it over the way her heartbeat is acting.
"Yes,” she admits, and the honesty shocks her almost as much as it seems to satisfy him.
"Good.” Anakin’s smile shifts into something quieter, more restrained. "You want to leave?”
Padmé’s eyebrows lift. "Leave.”
"Not like—” He pauses, then tries again, tone careful. "Not leave leave. Just… step outside. Get air. Five minutes. Somewhere no one can corner you.”
Padmé hesitates. It’s a simple offer. Practical. Safe.
But the way he’s looking at her isn’t purely practical.
The way her body wants to say yes isn’t purely practical either.
Padmé should say no.
Instead, she nods.
Glances toward the side door, then back at him.
"Wait,” she says, lowering her voice. "By the elevators.”
Anakin’s brows lift. "The elevators.”
"I have to do one more round,” Padmé admits, already bracing herself. "Five minutes, tops. Then we go.”
Anakin studies her for a beat like he’s weighing whether to argue, then he nods once. "Okay.”
Padmé exhales, relieved. "Thank you.”
Then she turns. She smiles, nods, accepts a compliment on the decorations, laughs politely at a joke she doesn’t hear. She moves with purpose, making it look like she’s doing the important, responsible-host sweep expected of her.
All the while, she can feel her heartbeat thudding in her chest.
Five minutes. Maybe six. Enough to be believable.
Then she slides out of the room, the noise dimming instantly as the door closes behind her.
The hallway is quiet—almost too quiet after the chaos inside.
Anakin is there.
Leaning against the wall near the elevator. Hands in his pockets. Black shirt undone at the collar. Watching the door like he’s been waiting for exactly her and no one else.
The second he sees her, he stands up straighter—subtle, instinctive.
The elevator dings open right as she reaches him.
Padmé steps up beside him, and they move inside together without a word. The doors slide shut with a soft, final thunk, cutting off the noise of the party.
For one suspended second, it’s just the two of them in a too-bright box of glass and metal—then she turns, catches him by the front of his dress shirt, and pulls him down into her.
The kiss is deep and fast—more collision than question. She’s tired of swallowing it back and smiling through it and pretending she doesn’t want him. She’s done being careful.
Anakin makes a quiet sound against her mouth—surprised for half a heartbeat, and then not surprised at all.
He kisses her back immediately, hard and certain, like he’d been having the same thought and just didn’t dare be the one to cross the line first. His hands come up, framing her head on either side, fingers spreading into her hair.
Padmé feels the shift in him as he steps in, closing the distance completely.
Her back hits the elevator wall with a soft, breathless jolt, and he follows it without hesitation, pressing her there—not rough, not careless, just there, solid and undeniable.
For a second, the world is only heat and the clean bite of his cologne and the way his mouth moves against hers. The bright lights overhead make it feel almost unreal—too exposed for something that private—but neither of them breaks.
Padmé’s fingers curl tighter in his shirt. She kisses him like she’s making up for every restrained smile, every "we’re coworkers,” every time she walked away first.
Anakin’s breathing is uneven when he finally pulls back just enough to speak, his forehead hovering near hers, hands still bracketing her face.
"Padmé,” he says—half warning, half disbelief.
Her chest rises and falls, and she keeps her grip on him like she can’t convince herself this is real otherwise.
"Don’t,” she murmurs, voice low. "Don’t make me think about it right now.”
His eyes search hers—blue, sharp, suddenly serious in a way that makes her stomach flip.
Then his mouth curves, not into a joke, but into something rougher. Something honest.
"Okay,” he breathes, like it costs him something to agree.
The elevator dings.
Padmé and Anakin spring apart instinctively—like teenagers getting caught, like coworkers who absolutely should not be doing what they were doing, like two people whose bodies are still humming from the contact and trying very hard to look normal.
The doors slide open.
The hallway is empty.
Empty and quiet and dimly lit—every office deserted, every desk abandoned for the party downstairs.
Padmé exhales a shaky breath and looks up at him.
Anakin looks back at her like he’s still catching up, shirt slightly rumpled from where she grabbed him, lips parted, chest rising just a little too fast.
She takes his wrist.
"Come with me,” she murmurs—barely a whisper, more instinct than instruction.
He doesn’t hesitate.
She pulls him down the hallway—heels clicking, hand wrapped around his.
Padmé reaches her office. Pushes the door open. Pulls him inside.
The moment the door clicks shut behind them, he’s on her again.
Or she’s on him.
It’s impossible to tell.
Her hands slide into his hair, tugging him closer; his fingers grip her waist, warm and sure, pulling her flush against him.
She walks him backward until his legs bump the edge of her rug, and then he shifts their weight and turns them with a fluid movement that steals her breath.
Suddenly she’s the one moving backward.
Slow. Guided.
Until her spine meets glass.
The floor-to-ceiling window.
The city glittering behind her.
Anakin presses her there, his body close enough to feel, his breath brushing her cheek, his hand sliding to the small of her back like he wants her anchored to him.
Padmé barely has time to gasp before a roar erupts from downstairs.
Cheering, shouting—voices rising up the stairwell like a tidal wave.
Midnight.
She startles half a step, and Anakin opens his eyes, glancing toward the sound—just for an instant.
And outside, right in front of them, fireworks explode in bursts of white and gold against the night sky—reflected a hundred times over in the glass towers around them.
The light flares across Anakin’s face, catching in his eyes, on the curve of his mouth, on the way he looks at her like he’s forgotten the world exists beyond this window. He kisses her again, slower, deeper, while fireworks crack and bloom behind her.
Padmé breathes his name against his lips.
Anakin answers it by pressing her harder into the glass, his hand sliding down to her hip and she has just enough clarity to register the thought fully, painfully:
This is going to be a very, very complicated year.