Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The golden afternoon sunlight poured through the tall arched windows of the Naberrie family home, casting long, warm stripes across the disarray of Aslym’s bedroom. The room looked like a battlefield where fashion had gone to war. Dresses—some only half-tried on, others discarded without mercy—covered nearly every piece of furniture. Silks, chiffons, velvets in all the soft and rich tones of Naboo’s twilight sky filled the space with color. And still, nothing seemed right.

Standing in just her undergarments, Aslym planted her hands firmly on her hips and frowned at the latest dress she had tried: an elegant emerald green gown with a draped neckline and delicate stitching along the bodice. It was beautiful, yes. Graceful even. But that wasn’t enough. Not for tonight.

"Ugh," she tossed the gown over her shoulder where it landed with the rest of the rejected options.  

A soft knock interrupted her frustration.  

"Aslym?" Her mother’s gentle voice came from behind the door.

"I’m busy, mom," she grumbled, already reaching for the next possibility—a deep sapphire-blue dress with silver details along the sleeves. Maybe this one would finally work?

But her mother didn’t wait for permission. The door creaked open anyway and Jobal Naberrie stepped inside, her eyes scanned inmediatly the battlefield of fabric with quiet amusement. Then, noticing the tension in her daughter’s shoulders, her expression softened.  

"Oh, sweetheart" she sighed, shaking her head. "You’re overthinking it again."  

Aslym let out a groan of pure frustration. "It’s been a year, mom. A whole year with him. Tonight should be… I don’t know. Special."  

Jobal smiled knowingly but didn’t press. Instead, she stepped forward, brushing a loose curl behind Aslym’s ear.

"Then let me help."  

With practiced hands, she sifted through the discarded gowns before pulling out a sleek, wine-red dress with a daring slit along the leg. "This one."  

Aslym hesitated. "Isn’t it too…?"  

"Perfect?" her mother finished, grinning. "Yes. Now put it on before I change my mind."  

Rolling her eyes but secretly relieved, Aslym obeyed. The moment the fabric touched her skin, she knew this one was different. It slid on like water, fitting her shape in all the right ways, making her feel beautiful without needing to try too hard. She turned slowly toward the mirror.

"Okay," she said quietly. "Okay, yeah. This might actually work."

Jobal clapped her hands together, delighted. "I knew it. You look absolutely breathtaking."

Aslym exhaled, some of the tension left her body. "Thanks, mom. I just… I want tonight to be good."  

Her mother’s expression shifted then, a spark of excitement lighting her eyes.

"You know? When I was your age, I used to sneak out with your father. I'd wear this kind of dress, and he'd get so handsy..."

"Mom!" Aslym cut in, her face flushing. "What did you actually come here for?"

"Oh! I almost forgot I have wonderful news!"  

Aslym tilted her head, curious. "More wonderful than finally finding a dress that doesn’t make me look like a stuffed shaak?"  

Jobal burst out laughing.

"Even better" she promised, savoring the moment before revealing the surprise. "Padmé is coming home!"  

The words hit Aslym like a wave of heat after a cold night—warm, shocking, and so welcome it almost didn’t feel real.

Aslym’s breath caught. "What? When?"  

"Today," Jobal said, beaming. "She just left Coruscant this morning. She should be here in a few hours, maybe less."

For a moment, Aslym just stood there, the weight of the news sinking in. Padmé. Her sister. After months of worrying—after those horrible assassination attempts, the sleepless nights, the fear that one day, a hologram would bring news she couldn’t bear to hear—she was coming home.  

A surprised laugh escaped her lips. "Finally."

Jobal’s eyes gleamed.

"I thought you’d be happy."  

"Happy? I’m thrilled," Aslym admitted, shaking her head. "Force knows I’ll kill her myself for making us worry so much, but…" She trailed off, swallowing the sudden tightness in her throat.  

Without a word, her mother pulled her into a tight, loving hug. Aslym leaned into it, letting the comfort of that simple embrace remind her that everything was okay now.

"She's safe, Jobal whispered. "That's what matters."  

Aslym nodded, pressing her face into her mother’s shoulder. Padmé. Home. Safe. Finally.

When she pulled away, there was a smirk tugging at her lips.

"Well, now I definitely need to look good tonight. Can’t let Padmé show me up the second she lands."  

Jobal swatted her arm playfully. "You’re impossible."  

"And yet, you love me."  

"Against my better judgment," her mother teased, smoothing the dress one last time. Then, she stepped back toward the door. "Finish getting ready, dear. But remember your date isn't until after nightfall. No need to get worked up this early."

The door clicked shut softly, leaving Aslym alone once more. The soft trickle of the garden fountains drifted through the open window, filling the silence with a calming rhythm. Outside, the golden hues of Naboo’s sunset spilled into the room, bathing the walls in warm light. Long shadows stretched across the floor and over the scattered mess of gowns that had not made the cut.

Padmé was coming home.

Aslym sank onto the edge of her bed, feeling a giddy smile spread across her face. Two years apart in age. That was all that separated them, but it had been enough for Padmé to become her compass, her partner-in-crime, and occasionally, her favorite headache. While Sola—six years older—had eagerly shouldered the role of "responsible big sister," Padmé and Aslym had been an unstoppable team: hiding stolen sweets from the kitchen, covering for each other's sneaky late-night outings with boys.  

Though this time, I'm the one with the date while she's the single one, she thought with an amused snort.  

Her heart fluttered as she remembered the past months—the news of assassination attempts, the sleepless nights glued to Senate reports. That's why today was doubly special: not just celebrating a year with Darian, but soon having her sister under the same roof, safe.  

A nudge against her calf startled her. "Mrrrow?" 

"Nerys!" Aslym reached down as the white loth-cat leapt into her lap, purring instantly. "You're excited too, aren't you? Mama Padmé's coming home!"  

The animal fixed her with those too-knowing blue eyes before playfully nipping her finger.  

"Ow! You little—"  

A tap at the window interrupted her.  

Aslym looked up just as a small floating drone slipped through the open frame, depositing an oblong package wrapped in silk paper on her vanity. A holo-note flickered to life:  

<<So you don't forget. 20:00 at the private dock. Don't be late, Naberrie. —D.>>  

Inside the package gleamed a silver bracelet with a single Zeltron-blue stone—the exact shade she'd worn on their first date.  

Aslym bit her lip to stifle another smile.

Hopeless romantic. 

The kitchen of the Naberrie estate was a symphony of sizzling pans and aromatic spices, the air thick with the scent of roasted shuura fruit and honey-glazed tip-yip. Aslym wiped her brow with the back of her hand, stirring a bubbling pot of creamy rootpuree while her mother hummed an old Naboo ballad beside her.  

"So then," Sola leaned against the counter, nibbling on a stolen slice of jogan fruit, "the droid insisted it was a sacred protocol to polish every single grape in the pantry. Can you imagine? Three hours, Aslym. Three hours of buffing fruit while the twins took it upon themselves to decorate Darred’s face with permanent ink. I walk in to find my husband snoring like a Hutt and the girls drawing mustaches like it’s an art exhibit." 

Aslym snorted, nearly dropping her spoon. "Please tell me you have holos." 

"Oh, I commissioned a portrait," Sola deadpanned. "It’s hanging in our foyer. Darred woke up looking like a Pantoran pirate and still didn’t notice until—"

"AUNT PADMÉ IS HERE!"  

The shierk was followed by a stampede of small feet—Pooja and Ryoo, all squeals and curls and flailing limbs, bolted past the kitchen like a pair of pint-sized missiles, trailing laughter behind them like smoke.

Sola’s eyes lit up. "Finally!" She tossed the fruit core into the compost chute and grabbed Aslym’s shoulders. "Leave the stupid rootpuree—"

"It'll burn," Aslym protested, but Sola was already spinning toward the door.  

"Then save it and run!"

And just like that, Sola disappeared out the door, her voice already rising to greet whoever had just walked through the front gate.

Aslym stood frozen for a breath. Then the reality hit.

Kriffing hells.

She lunged into motion, yanking the tip-yip from the oven just as the edges started to caramelize a little too enthusiastically. With frantic movements, she spooned the creamy rootpuree into serving bowls, adding a splash of cream and a dash of thyme more for show than taste.

Good enough. It’s fine. She won’t care if it’s a little lumpy. Or will she? No. It’s fine. It’s—

She heard several voices coming from the dining room and moved her hands more quickly, until a soft, warm voice that always comforted her reached her ears:

"Where is Aslym?"

Aslym took a deep breath, steadying the last serving dish in her hands. The aroma of roasted tip-yip and spiced rootpuree wafted around her as she nudged the kitchen door open with her hip. "Sorry! Someone had to save dinner from Sola’s help—"

Her voice trailed off.

Padmé was standing near the head of the table, half-turned in conversation with their mother. The chandelier above bathed her in soft golden light, catching the gentle wave of her hair and the subtle shimmer of her blue gown. For a moment, it felt like time bent around her—still and impossibly tender.

"Aslym," she breathed, already stepping forward.  

But Aslym barely heard her. Her eyes had locked onto the figure standing beside Padmé.

A young man. Tall, thin, but robustly built under a dark robe, with a braid falling over his shoulder, was staring at her. His long brown cloak was thrown back just enough to reveal the glint of a lightsaber at his hip—a clear sign to anyone in the Republic. A Jedi.

He couldn't have been much older than her, but something about his expression made him seem... older. As if he'd seen more than he should have. Deep-set eyes beneath sharp brows, disheveled hair pulled back in a ponytail, and a mouth that neither smiled nor frowned, just a serene intensity. He kept staring at her.

Who—?

Before she could finish the thought, Padmé closed the distance and wrapped her in a fierce hug, arms encircling her so fast the tray nearly slipped from Aslym’s hands.

"I missed you," her sister breathed, voice thick with emotion.

Aslym hugged her back just as fiercely, inhaling the familiar scent of her perfume—something floral, something home. "You idiot," she muttered into Padmé's shoulder. "You absolute nerf-herder. Do you have any idea how worried we—?" 

"I know." Padmé pulled back just enough to cup her face, her thumbs brushing tears from Aslym’s cheeks—tears she hadn’t noticed falling. "I know. I’m sorry."

Behind them, someone cleared their throat.  

The Jedi—because he had to be a Jedi, with that lightsaber at his hip—was still watching them. Not smiling as he had done watching at their family. Not frowning. Just... looking.  

Padmé followed her gaze. "Oh! Aslym, this is—"

"Anakin Skywalker" he said, stepping forward. His voice was deeper than she’d expected. "Padawan of the Jedi Order."

And Aslym didn’t miss the sharp jolt that shot through her body.

Chapter Text

"You've arrived just in time for dinner," Jobal said warmly, sliding dishes across the table. "I hope you're hungry, Anakin."

The Jedi smiled shyly under Aslym's watchful gaze. They had only been seated at the table for a few minutes since meeting, and she couldn't shake the strange feeling that plagued her whenever he spoke. Padmé had been trying to get her attention, but Aslym had barely managed to pretend she was listening.

She simply didn't feel comfortable with a stranger in their home.

"A little," Anakin admitted, embarrassed.

Padmé smiled in amusement. "He's just being polite, mom. We're starving."

"You arrived at the perfect time," Ruwee declared, passing a steaming bowl to Anakin. "Aslym made her famous rootpuree. Even the cooks at Theed Palace ask for her recipe."

Anakin’s lips twitched as he examined the dish. "Rootpuree," he repeated, the word laced with barely amusement. Seemed to be struggling to let out a laugh.

Aslym didn’t like that smile. 

She held her fork tightly. "Is something funny?" she asked seriously, attracting all the attention. "Or is it just not refined enough for you?"

Anakin blinked, caught off guard. His smile faltered. "No, I just—"

"It’s delicious, Asly," Padmé cut in quickly, flashing him a warning look before taking an exaggerated bite. "Right, Ani?"

Anakin straightened in his seat, clearly sensing a trap. "Right," he muttered, eyes dropping to his plate as if it suddenly required deep analysis.

"Oh, don’t mind her," Sola said, laughing. She kicked Aslym gently under the table. "She gets dramatic when she’s hungry." Then leaned closer to Anakin, smiling. "Did you know you’re the first boyfriend Padmé has ever brought home?"

Aslym almost choked on her drink.

Wait.

Boyfriend?

She pointed at Anakin's lightsaber. "I thought Jedi weren't allowed to have relationships."

"Force, guys!" Padmé said quickly, her face turning red. "Anakin is not my boyfriend. He was assigned by the Senate to protect me, that’s all."

Across the table, Jobal and Ruwee looked at each other. The twins giggled behind their cups. Anakin suddenly found his rootpurée fascinating. But Aslym managed to see his lips pressed together.

"He's your bodyguard? Oh, Padmé! This is more serious than they led us to believe!" her mother seemed hysterically worried.

Padmé raised her hands gently, trying to calm the room. "It is not, mom. I promise." she looked at everyone on the table, "Anyway, Anakin is just a friend. I met him years ago. Do you remember that boy who was with the Jedi during the blockade crisis? 

Everyone went quiet for a moment.

Aslym blinked. The boy? That boy?

Her stomach turned as old memories came rushing back. She remembered that terrible time, the fear, the confusion, the long nights not knowing if Padmé was even alive. She had hated being left behind while her sister became Queen Amidala, too busy and too far to call. And when the Trade Federation attacked, it had only made things worse.

She could still see herself, a younger girl crying in Sola’s arms, asking over and over why Padmé hadn’t come home.

Aslym looked at Anakin again. He really wasn’t a boy anymore.

"You’ve grown," she said suddenly, more to herself than to him.

Aslym didn't realize she had said it so loudly until Anakin laid his gaze on her, intently. But before he could say anything, Jobal spoke.

"Honey, when are you going to settle down?" her voice sharp with worry, "Haven't you had enough of that life? I think so."

Padmé sigh. "Mom, I'm not in danger."

Their father turned his head towards the Jedi, asking him if she was. And Anakin finally spoke, taking his eyes off Aslym. 

"Yes. She is."

His voice was calm, but serious. The room fell quiet again. Even the twins stopped whispering.

Jobal’s face tightened with concern. "Then maybe you shouldn’t have come back..."

Padmé shook her head. "This is my home. I had to see you. I wanted to see you."

Perhaps, putting sentimentality before her safety was too risky, but Aslym had to admit she had missed her so much that she wanted to risk keeping her with them. Even if she was accompanied by that boy who kept boring into her with his gaze. 

Once the silence passed, Ruwee cleared his throat. "Well then, since you’re here, young man, you have to tell us everything. What’s it like, being a Jedi?"

That broke the tension a bit. The twins gasped with excitement, and even Sola leaned in with interest.

Anakin seemed a little surprised, but then he nodded politely. "It’s... demanding," he said. "We train from early morning until night. There’s always something to study or practice. Lightsaber combat, meditation, missions... The Order keeps us busy."

"Do you live in the Temple?" Pooja asked, eyes wide.

"Yes," Anakin said with a small smile. "Since I was nine."

"That’s so young!" Jobal said, pressing a hand to her heart. "I can’t imagine sending my child away like that."

Padmé looked down for a moment, her fingers brushing her glass.

"So, no family, no vacations, no sleeping in," Sola said with a grin. "Sounds exhausting. And no love, right? Jedi can’t fall in love, isn’t that the rule?"

Aslym saw it.

The way Anakin’s eyes shifted, not toward Sola, but toward Padmé.

Just for a second. But it was enough. Enough for Aslym to know.

He wanted her.

Padmé didn’t look back at him, but her fingers tightened slightly on her fork. Aslym’s chest felt tight. She looked away, pushing her food around her plate.

Something about it bothered her. A Jedi wasn't just a soldier, he was someone trained to be dangerous, calm, detached. And yet this one... Anakin... didn’t feel detached at all.

Isn’t Padmé in enough danger already?

She glanced across the table. Her sister had already risked her life too many times for the Republic, for Naboo. Now, a Jedi with feelings he wasn’t even supposed to have was looking at her like that?

Aslym clenched her jaw, the warmth of the room suddenly feeling too heavy. She didn’t trust him. And she didn’t like the way he looked at Padmé.

Not one bit.

"Well," Aslym said casually, taking a slow sip of her drink, "at least we know Jedi are trained to hide their emotions. That must come in handy… when pretending nothing’s wrong."

Padmé didn’t seem to catch the tone. She just nodded thoughtfully. "Yes, it helps them stay focused."

But across the table, Anakin’s posture shifted slightly. He didn’t smile. He didn’t move. His jaw tightened for a moment.

"Must be strange, though," Aslym continued, her eyes not quite on him, "being so close to people and never really connecting with them. Or... pretending you don’t."

Sola raised an eyebrow. "That sounds lonely."

"It probably is," Aslym nodded naturally, setting down her glass a little harder than needed. "Unless someone breaks the rules."

Anakin finally looked up, meeting her eyes. "Jedi don’t break the rules."

"Of course not," Aslym replied, arching an eyebrow. "You’re trained not to."

He said nothing.

Jobal, still unaware of the tension, turned to Anakin with a kind smile.

"You’re very mature for someone so young."

Anakin gave a polite nod, but his gaze flicked back to Aslym. She wasn’t smiling anymore. Just watching him in silence.

He cleared his throat. "I take my responsibilities seriously."

"I’m sure you do," Aslym said. "After all, Padmé's life depends on it, doesn’t it?"

The room fell briefly quiet, only broken by Ryoo whispering to her sister, "Why is he turning red?"

Padmé laughed softly, brushing it off. "Ani is just not used to this much attention at once."

Anakin looked away, hiding his expression behind his cup. But Aslym kept her eyes on him, still calm, holding back a satisfied smile.

Let him sweat.

The clatter of plates and soft clinks of cutlery filled the Naberrie dining room as the four women worked in quiet rhythm. Padmé stacked the last of the cups, Sola dried them with a patterned cloth, while Jobal wiped down the table. Aslym stood near the window, gathering napkins and folding them absentmindedly, though her eyes were elsewhere.

Outside, Ruwee strolled through the garden, deep in conversation with Anakin Skywalker. The Jedi walked with his hands behind his back, posture straight, but not stiff. The setting sun cast gold across his robes and hair, making him look more like a prince from a holo-novel than a peacekeeper of the Republic.

"He’s taller than I expected," Sola remarked, following Aslym’s gaze. "Didn’t think Jedi came in that size."

Aslym rolled her eyes as she carried a tray to the counter. "You say that like we’re picking fruit."

"Well, he is ripe," Sola teased.

Aslym snorted, but said nothing.

"Why haven’t you told us about him before?" Sola asked Padmé, elbow-deep in soapy water.

Padmé didn’t look up. "What was there to tell? He’s just a Jedi."

"‘Just a Jedi,’" Sola repeated with a smirk. "Have you seen the way he looks at you?"

Aslym, drying a set of glasses nearby, didn’t turn around. She simply muttered, "It's almost fucking disturbing."

"Aslym!"Jobal scolded her, then glanced out toward the garden, following Aslym’s line of sight. "Well," she said more softly, "he is rather intense."

Sola laughed. "See? Even mom and Aslym noticed."

Padmé rolled her eyes, scrubbing at an already clean plate. 

"There’s nothing to notice. Anakin and I are good friends. That’s all."

"Oh, please. Just admit it. He has feelings for you."

Padmé scoffed. "Don’t be ridiculous."

Jobal, calmer than her daughters, looked back out at the garden. "You have done your duty, Padmé. Maybe it's time you lived for yourself a little."

Padmé's shoulders stiffened. "What I'm doing is important."

Aslym moved toward the window, wiping her hands on a towel as she watched Anakin tilt his head at something Ruwee said.

"Important or not," she said carefully, "I just hope this Jedi doesn’t make things more dangerous than they already are."

As if hearing her voice, Anakin looked up.

Their eyes met through the glass. He didn’t smile. Neither did she.

Something unreadable passed between them. Then Aslym arched an eyebrow, slowly, deliberately. Anakin blinked and looked down, pretending to listen more closely to Ruwee.

Sola chuckled. "Oh, I like him."

"I don’t," Aslym muttered, just loud enough for Padmé to hear. 

Her sister pretend not to hear her. 

Sola finished drying the last plate and leaned back against the counter, arms crossed with a smirk.

"So, Aslym," she said, her tone too casual to be innocent. "Is it true what mom told me about you going to have a hot anniversary date tonight?"

Aslym blinked, startled. "What—?"

Padmé turned from the sink, her eyes wide. "Wait, you’re still with Darian?"

Aslym cleared her throat, suddenly more interested in folding a towel than answering. "Yes. I mean... yeah. We’re still together."

Sola let out a dramatic sigh. "Still? As in, he hasn’t ruined it yet?"

Aslym shot her a look. "No, he hasn’t. And we’re meeting at the private dock in a few hours."

Padmé's face lit up. "The old Naboo harbor? That’s so romantic!"

Aslym shrugged, her fingers fidgeting with the edge of the cloth.

"He said he had a surprise planned. Some boat ride or something. I don’t know."

"But it is your anniversary," Padmé said, stepping closer. "That is so sweet. And Darian always seemed... thoughtful."

"He is," Aslym replied softly, though her voice lacked the excitement one might expect. "He has always been good to me."

Sola snorted behind her. "He also once compared her eyes to nerf-butter."

"That was poetry!" Aslym protested, laughing softly.

Padmé smiled warmly, clearly touched by the idea of her sister being happy. "I’m really glad you still have each other. You deserve something good."

Aslym looked at her then. The way Padmé's eyes sparkled, the relief in her voice. For a moment, Aslym forgot about the Jedi in the garden. Forgot about anything except her sister’s smile.

"Thanks," she said quietly. "That means a lot."

Padmé hummed and went over to her mother to help her wash the last of the utensils. Sola and Aslym were left alone in the kitchen, both of them looking through the window, where they saw their father standing with his back to them and Anakin nodding at everything he seemed to be saying.

"We should give him a try, don't you think?" Sola asked. "I hope he's the right one for Padmé." 

However, she didn't seem to notice the furtive glance Anakin was throwing in her direction, his gaze rising slightly from her father's figure to hers, again.

As much as she tried, Aslym couldn't tear her gaze away. There was something about him that screamed "danger," even though he was there to protect her sister with his life. She didn't feel good about him.

"I just hope he’s as good at protecting as he is at pretending not to stare."

Chapter Text

The dress fit too well.  

Aslym smoothed her hands over the deep red fabric, the dress clinging perfectly to her pale skin. It traced the soft lines of her waist, hugged her hips, and slid down into a high slit that exposed the curve of her leg each time she shifted her stance. Her breath caught slightly. She looked stunning. Almost too stunning. It had been her mother’s choice, of course. Elegant, bold, and... daring.

She wasn’t used to looking like this.

A cool breeze drifted through the open window, carrying the salty scent of the lake and the distant sound of waves lapping against the private dock. She placed the silver bracelet that Darian had given her around her wrist. 

Aslym exhaled sharply. Him. Darian.  

A year together, and tonight was supposed to be perfect. Romantic. Hers.  

A knocking interrupted her fantasy and before she could answer, the door swung open.

"Aslym?"  

The surprised voice made her spin around immediately.  

Anakin Skywalker stood in the doorway, with his tall silhouette against the light from the hallway. His blue eyes widened slightly as he watched her, scanning her dress in a way that made Aslym's cheeks burn. The shadows of the room carved sharp lines across his face, highlighting the set of his jaw, the way his broad shoulders filled the frame. 

For a heartbeat, neither of them moved.

Finally, Aslym shook her head and took a deep breath, watching him paralyzed, and feeling herself blush.

"What the hell are you doing here?" she hiss, crossing her arms over the neckline.  

"I was looking for Padmé," he replied carefully, but his gaze didn’t leave her. "I thought this was her room."  

"It's two doors down, Jedi," she retorted, noticing how her voice came out higher pitched than usual. "You might try waiting next time before barging into someone’s room. Especially… when they might be changing."

"I knocked."  

"You didn't wait."

The air between them thickened. She should’ve dismissed him, should’ve turned away, but something kept her rooted in place, chin lifted, daring him to look again.  

Anakin took a very quick look at her outfit again, before looking up . "You’re not dressed for dinner," he observed, as if she needed the reminder.  

Her lips curved, sharp and humorless. 

"Maybe that’s because I’m not staying for dinner."

"Right." A pause. Then, with a edge she couldn’t quite place: "Padmé said you have a date."  

"Yes," she said, stepping closer unconsciously, without stopping looking into his eyes . "A very important one."  

This time, his stare was deliberate. Slow. It traced the neckline of her dress, the flutter of her pulse at her throat, the way her chest rose with each breath. It wasn’t polite. Wasn't Jedi-like.  

Aslym's skin burned.  

"That dress…" Anakin started, then stopped, as if reconsidering.  

She arched a brow, crossing her arms just to see his gaze flicker downward. "What? Red is too much for a Jedi to handle? Do you really only wear that boring brown?"  

A muscle jumped in his jaw. "I like brown. It’s practical."  

"And dull."  

"Like your rootpuree."  

Aslym opened her eyes wide.  

"So you were mocking it," she whispered, dangerously.  

Anakin shrugged, letting a faint smile cross his face. "Just joking, princess."  

The nickname sent a shiver through her.

Since when do Jedi have that tone of voice?

Before she could fire back, Anakin stepped away, adjusting his sleeves with false indifference.  

"You better not keep your boyfriend waiting," he said, stressing the word almost with fun. Another look ran slowly over her figure one more time, keeping her slightly paralyzed. "Though in that dress, I doubt he'll complain."  

Aslym opened her mouth for a sharp retort, but he was already turning to leave.  

"Skywalker," she called, unable to stop herself.  

Anakin paused, without even turning around. "Yeah?"  

Aslym said nothing for a few seconds, before taking a discreet breath:

"Next time you walk in uninvited," she began with an evidently threatening tone, "I’ll make sure you remember not to."  

This time, he did turn. And the darkened look he gave her stole her breath.  

"Careful, princess. Sounds more like an invitation than a threat."  

She might have laughed if he'd meant it as a joke. But it didn't sound like a joke. The expression on his face betrayed no emotion. Yet Aslym could swear there was something in his tone of voice, something like... a threat. 

For a few seconds, neither of them said anything. They looked at each other in silence, and she couldn't stop feeling the sting on her skin every time his eyes pierced into hers, as if time had vanished, as if he wanted her to understand his unspoken message, but still knowing that something like that would never happen. Not from either side.

"Have a good night, princess."

And the door clicked shut behind him.  

The private dock shimmered under Naboo’s twin moons, their silver light were reflected across the water like scattered credits. Darian leaned against the polished railing, his crisp navy suit contrasted to the casual linen shirts Aslym was used to seeing him in.  

"You’re late," he teased as she approached, but his smirk faded when he got a proper look at her. "Kriffing hells."  

Aslym did a slow twirl, the red dress flaring around her. "Mother’s idea."  

"Remind me to thank her." Darian caught her waist, pulling her close. His fingers traced the daring slit up her thigh. "Repeatedly."  

She laughed, swatting his hand away, but let him kiss her. A proper, lingering kiss that tasted like the expensive Corellian wine he’d brought. When they broke apart, his thumb brushed the hollow of her throat.  

"Nervous?" he murmured.  

"About dinner with my boyfriend? Hardly."  

"Not that." He tapped the pulse fluttering beneath her skin. "This."  

Aslym just smiled, without knowing how to answer. Darian looked incredibly handsome that night –he always did– and she couldn't believe how lucky she was to have him for herself. A quick kiss on her lips made her let out a giggle. "Happy anniversary."

"Happy anniversary, darling."

About half an hour passed as they started talking and admired the beautiful stars of the galaxy above them. Aslym listened attentively to Darian’s experience in his new position as part of the InterGalactic Banking Clan, and although she enjoyed hearing his voice, it was hard to hide the boredom on her face.

If there was one thing they had in common, it was their unfortunate lack of interest in each other’s vocations: while Darian was fully immersed in galactic economics and had just earned a position in one of the most important organizations in the Outer Rim, Aslym was a botany student in her final year at university, completely dedicated to the study of plants.

Since their interests weren't exactly compatible, Aslym’s mind drifted entirely to her day, and for some reason, she decided to tell Darian about it. Leaving out of course what had happened before their date.

Her boyfriend's frown deepened with every mention of the Jedi, whom she described as Padmé's relentless stalker.

Darian’s grip tightened. "Tell me he won't sleep in the same house as you."

"Unfortunately, he has to. His duty is to protect my sister at every moment."

"Right." His laugh was razor-sharp. "Because Naboo’s so dangerous with all its... flower gardens and streams."  

She rolled her eyes, leading him toward the waiting gondola. "Don’t start. Tonight is about us."  

"Is it?" Darian helped her in, his voice dropping as the boat glided away from the dock. "Then why do you smell like ozone?"  

"What?"  

"Jedi." He wrinkled his nose. "That static-electricity stench they carry around. You reek of it."  

Aslym stiffened. She had been near Anakin an hour ago, close enough to feel the heat of his presence, to catch the crisp, storm-charged scent of his Force signature.  

"He barged into my room by accident," she admitted.  

Darian's fingers stilled around his wineglass. "While you were wearing that?"  

Before she could answer, he captured her lips again, this time with a possessiveness that made her gasp. His teeth grazed her bottom lip, his hands mapping the dress’s daring neckline like he needed to erase invisible fingerprints.  

"Darian—"  

"I know what those robes mean," he muttered against her skin. "They recruit young, train them to be weapons, then pretend they’re above wanting things." His mouth found the sensitive spot below her ear. "But I’ve seen how they look at what they can’t have."  

Aslym shivered, torn between irritation and the traitorous thrill racing down her spine. "Jealous?"  

"Calculating." He pulled back just enough to meet her eyes. "My new position requires risk assessment."  

"Well assess this." She kissed him hard, pouring every ounce of frustration into it, the confusing encounter with Anakin, Darian's sudden intensity, the way her body seemed to betray her at every turn.  

And she let herself be carried away by the passion of the night, pretending that not even for a moment during their anniversary had the Jedi's piercing blue eyes crossed her mind like shooting stars across the galaxy.

Chapter Text

The front door creaked open with a long, painful groan.

Aslym stumbled inside, kicking off her heels with a clatter that echoed across the empty entrance hall. She winced and clapped a hand over her mouth, swaying slightly as she caught her balance against the wall. The cool marble floor felt oddly distant under her bare feet, the world spinning just a little too much to pretend she was sober.

Maybe that last glass of Corellian wine had been a mistake.

She blinked up at the grand staircase, considering the impossible journey ahead.

One step. 

Then another. 

She could totally do this.

Halfway across the hall, her hip caught a side table, sending a decorative vase crashing to the floor with a spectacular shatter.

"Kriffing hells," she hissed under her breath, crouching awkwardly to pick up the pieces.

A sharp snap-hiss broke the silence.

Aslym froze, her head jerked toward the staircase. An eerie blue glow cut through the dark. A blade of pure plasma.

Anakin Skywalker was standing on the bottom step, with his lightsaber humming low and dangerous, and his eyes narrowed, scanning for threats… until he saw her.

Aslym stared back, still half-crouched, holding two broken pieces of porcelain.

"Seriously?" she slurred. "That Jedi weapon? For me?"

Anakin exhaled through his nose, a muscle in his jaw ticking. He lowered the saber but didn't turn it off. "I heard a crash. I thought—" His voice faltered as he took in the sight of her: dress rumpled, hair tumbling loose around her flushed face, legs bare where the slit in her gown revealed more than it should have. He swallowed hard.

"You're drunk," reproached Anakin, as if he was accusing her of a crime.

"What a discovery," growled Aslym, struggling to stand. She swayed, and he instinctively stepped forward, reaching out, but she batted his hand away.

"Don't touch me," she snapped.

"Fine," said Anakin coldly, drawing himself up. "Then try not to knock yourself out."

Aslym glared at him, heat prickling under her skin. It wasn't just the alcohol. It was him. The way he stared at her, the way he spoke like he knew better. Like he was somehow above her. 

And yet, his eyes kept dropping to her exposed leg before snapping back up to her face.

"You know," she started, with a low and dangerous voice, "for someone sworn to peace and purity, you're awfully bad at hiding what's on your mind."

His jaw clenched. "You have no idea what's on my mind."

"Oh, I think I do." She smiled sweetly, stepping closer. "And don't worry, Jedi. I'm not interested."

Anakin's muscles contracted, and for a second, the air between them felt like a live wire—tense, sparking, dangerously close to snapping.

Without another word, he turned off his saber with a sharp snap and stuffed it onto his belt. "Go to bed, Aslym," he muttered, brushing past her, his arm grazed hers just enough to make her heart stumble in her chest.

Aslym watched him disappear up the stairs, with her pulse still hammering in her ears.

"I'm not the one losing sleep over this," she said into the empty hall, but even she wasn't sure if she believed it.

As she started to head towards her room, the stairs seemed endless. Aslym clutched the railing, with the heart still racing, and her cheeks burning hotter than the Tatooine suns. She blamed the wine. She blamed Darian. She blamed Anakin kriffing Skywalker, with his lightsaber and his judgmental looks.

Halfway up, she stumbled again, cursing under her breath. But strong hands caught her by the waist just in time before she fell. 

Aslym gasped, twisting around, and found herself chest to chest with him.

Skywalker.

He must have doubled back without her hearing. The hallway was dark, shadows swallowing everything but the sharp line of his jaw and the too-intense gleam of his eyes.

"You're going to kill yourself in those stairs," he muttered with rough voice.

"Then I'm sure your lightsaber wouldn't be pleased," she fired back, but it came out breathless, trembling.

His hands were still on her. Too steady. Too warm.

She tried to pull away, but the movement dragged her closer instead, the slit of her dress parting further, baring her thigh against the rough fabric of his tunic. His fingers flexed, as if fighting the instinct to pull her in, or push her away.

Aslym tilted her chin up, daring him.

"You're supposed to be a monk, remember?" she whispered, the words like smoke between them. "No attachments. No feelings. No distractions."

Anakin looked at her without blinking. 

"I'm doing my duty," he said lowly. "Keeping you from cracking your skull open."

"Right," she breathed, heart hammering painfully. "Duty."

For a second, neither of them moved. Neither of them spoke. The air between them crackled, charged and heavy, as if the Force itself was holding its breath.

Anakin's gaze dropped. First to her mouth, then lower, tracing the curve of her exposed skin with a kind of hunger he clearly didn't pretend to show.

Aslym felt like a touch, setting her nerves on fire.

And she hated it.

Hated how her body leaned closer without permission, how her fingers curled into the front of his robe as if anchoring herself. She was aware of how drunk she was and blamed the wine.

"You're dangerous," murmured Anakin, almost too soft for her to hear.

"Likewise, Skywalker," whispered Aslym back.

His hands left her waist slowly, deliberately, and the absence of his touch was almost worse than his grip. Without another word, he turned and stalked back down the hall, every step stiff.

Aslym stood there, breathing hard, watching his shadow disappear into the darkness.

Gods help me, she thought grimly, pressing a hand to her burning chest.

This wasn't over.

Not even close.

Anakin slammed the door to the guest room harder than necessary.

The old wood rattled in its frame, but he didn't care. He tossed his lightsaber onto the small table by the bed and ran a hand through his hair, breathing hard.

Kriffing hells.

He should be thinking about Padmé.

Padmé, he reminded himself, squeezing his eyes shut. Sweet, brave, beautiful Padmé, with her soft smile and her kind words, the reason he was even here on Naboo. The reason he had accepted this kriffing assignment in the first place.

But when he closed his eyes… it wasn't Padmé's smile he saw.

It was Aslym's face.

The daring flash of her thigh through that cursed dress.

The heat in her voice when she called him a monk.

Anakin cursed again, with a low and savage grunt.

It didn't make sense. She was rude. She was arrogant. She didn't respect him, or the Jedi, or anything he stood for. Every word out of her mouth was designed to get under his skin… and worse, it worked.

He should have let her fall down those damn stairs.

But no. He had caught her, and for a moment… For a moment, her small body had fit perfectly against him. Warm. Soft. Infuriating.

Anakin paced the room, boots heavy against the wooden floor, fists clenching and unclenching at his sides. The Force around him stirred, restless and uneven, echoing his frustration.

How could one woman—one infuriating woman—mess with his head like this?

You're dangerous, he had told her.

He hadn't just meant the stairs.

Aslym Naberrie became a threat he was not used to facing. Not just to his body. But to his focus. To his mind. To the fragile control he fought so hard to maintain.

And still... when he thought about the way her lips had parted slightly when she breathed his last name, or how her fingers had curled into his robes like she didn't even realize...

Anakin cursed again, softer this time, sinking down on the edge of the bed and burying his head in his hands.

It's just the wine, he told himself fiercely. She's drunk. You're tired. This is nothing.

He forced himself to think of Padmé, Padmé, who was pure and good and everything he wanted for his future.

Not Aslym, who made him feel things he wasn't supposed to feel.

Not Aslym, who already had some other stuck-up, pompous boyfriend from Naboo.

Anakin stayed lying down against the bed, staring at the ceiling, his heart pounding far too fast for comfort.

The silence of the Naberrie estate pressed around him, broken only by the distant creaks of settling wood and the faint hum of night insects outside the window. But inside him, there was only chaos.

His fists clenched against the bedsheets.

Focus. Control yourself. Think of Padmé.

He tried, he really did. He pictured her delicate hands, her soft, steady voice.Her eyes, warm and trusting. The way she had smiled at him earlier that day, her face glowing with kindness.

For a moment, peace threatened to settle over him.

But then, without warning… another image crashed into his mind. Aslym.

Not Padmé's soft sweetness. Aslym's fire.

Aslym's furious, narrowed eyes, her body wrapped in that damn dress, the way the deep red clung to every curve, the way her thigh had flashed through the slit when she moved, bold and unafraid.

Anakin's breath caught painfully in his throat. He tried to push her away, to banish her from his mind.

But it was useless.

He could still feel the heat of her body when she had stumbled into him earlier. Could still smell the faint, intoxicating scent of her skin—wine and something richer, darker. His hand moved without conscious thought, sliding under the waistband of his sleep pants, wrapping around himself with a desperate grip. A low, broken sound escaped his lips.

He squeezed his eyes shut, clenching his teeth.

It should be Padmé, not her sister.

Anakin imagined Padmé's hands, trailing down his chest. But the fingers that danced over his skin in his mind were not gentle—they were sharp, demanding.

Like Aslym would be.

Anakin thought that she wouldn't be shy. She would kiss him like she wanted to burn him alive, nails digging into his shoulders, her body arching against his.

Anakin's hips bucked into his hand, a groan ripped from his throat.

His mind painted the scene in vivid, unbearable colors as he continued to pump his dick faster. Aslym, straddling him, her red dress pooling around her hips, baring her long, pale legs. Her mouth parted, panting against his ear, her voice a husky whisper as she called him something wicked.

"You think you're in control, Skywalker?" she'd taunt, her hands pinning his wrists above his head.

Anakin cursed under his breath, his strokes growing violent, rougher, chasing the brutal release his body screamed for. Sweat slicked his skin.

He imagined her leaning down, biting at his jaw, pulling a ragged gasp from him. Imagined her nails raking down his chest, claiming him, marking him. Maybe she would then go down further, offering to finish the job he had started and wrapping her small heart-shaped lips around his thick member.

Anakin's muscles tensed, his mind flooded with the image of Aslym kneeling in front of him, gasping for oxygen, with tears of pleasure and pain painting her beautiful face.

He couldn't hold back.

With a hoarse moan, he came, shuddering hard under his own hand, her name half-formed on his lips.

"Aslym..." he panted into the darkness, with raw voice .

For a long moment, Anakin lay there, chest heaving, heart pounding like a war drum. Shame coiled hot and ugly in his gut.

What the hell is wrong with me?

He dragged a hand over his face, furious with himself. He was supposed to be better than this. He was supposed to be in love with Padmé.

But no matter how hard he tried, when he closed his eyes… he didn't see Padmé's soft, smiling face. He saw Aslym.

Her furious eyes.

Her wicked mouth.

Her infuriating body in that blood-red dress.

And worst of all, part of him didn't want to stop.

Tomorrow, he promised himself. Tomorrow, he would stay away from her. He would pretend tonight had never happened.

He had to.