Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The bell above the shop door gave its usual lacklustre jingle, like even it had decided this grey, drizzling Tuesday wasn’t worth the effort. It was nearly half-ten in the morning, and the only customer so far had been a tourist who mistook the place for a café and asked for a flat white. Anakin told him, as politely as his mood allowed, that unless he was willing to drink printer ink, he’d better try the bakery down the street.

The man had smiled nervously and backed out of the shop like Anakin might throw a book at him. Which, to be fair, had happened once.

The shop was called Azure Bookstore . Anakin didn’t name it. The previous owner, who was a woman with a fondness for white wine and Margaret Atwood, had insisted on it before retiring to Sussex. He’d bought the place in a strange haze after everything went to hell, mostly because it was quiet, dim, and full of things that didn’t talk back. That was four years ago. The same number of years as Luke, who was currently seated on a bean bag in the children’s section with yoghurt on his chin and a picture book in his lap, pretending to read but really just looking at the animal drawings and making up his own plot.

“Daddy, the lion’s name is Jeff,” he declared.

Anakin looked up from where he was sorting through a stack of second hand paperbacks that all smelled faintly of mildew and regret. “Bold choice,” he said. “He looks more like a Tony.”

Luke frowned at the book as if reconsidering his entire worldview. “No,” he said firmly. “He’s Jeff.”

“Fine. Jeff it is.”

This, as far as Anakin was concerned, was the peak of their father-son bonding today. He was tired. Not the kind of tired that sleep could fix, but the kind that built up behind your ribs when you’d spent too long pretending you were fine. His blonde hair had grown too long and had gotten a bit out of control. His maroon sweater had a questionable stain that might’ve been from a blueberry muffin or engine grease (both equally likely). He hadn’t had a relationship in five years. His only friend was a man who dressed like a college philosophy professor and spoke entirely in metaphors.

And then there was his sister, Ahsoka.

A crash from the stockroom was followed by a string of creative swearing.

Speak of the devil.

She emerged with a box of new releases balanced on her hip and a smudge of dust across her cheek like war paint. “You know,” she said, kicking the door shut with her foot, “if you actually labelled the boxes like I told you to, I wouldn’t have almost been murdered by The Complete Works of Dickens .”

“I labelled them,” Anakin said. “In my head.”

Ahsoka dropped the box on the front counter with a dramatic grunt. She was wearing a vintage denim jacket over a hoodie that read Hot Girls Read Sad Books and a messy ponytail that somehow still made her look cooler than anyone else in the postcode.

“You’re so lucky I love this place,” she muttered, opening the box with a pair of scissors and slicing through the tape like a woman on a mission.

“You’re so lucky I don’t pay you,” Anakin said.

“You pay me in trauma,” she shot back.

He gave a tired smirk and went back to sorting the books. She started stacking the new titles on the front display, humming something under her breath that suspiciously sounded like Britney Spears. The drizzle outside had turned into honest to god rain, tapping against the windows in a steady rhythm.

“I saw a trailer last night,” Ahsoka said suddenly. “For that new Padmé Amidala film. The one with the swords and the sapphic longing and her wearing, like, seventeen corsets.”

Anakin grunted. That was his default reaction to most things.

“I’m going,” she said. “Opening weekend. Full glam. Possibly drunk.”

“You do that.”

“You should come.”

Anakin looked up. “To a fantasy drama where Padmé Amidala has a bisexual sword fight and a breakdown in a rose garden?”

Ahsoka gave him a deeply unimpressed look. “Don’t act like you wouldn’t enjoy that.”

He tried to shrug, like this was just another stupid movie and not the one actress he had quietly nursed a dumb little crush on ever since he saw her in a period drama while drunk on supermarket wine three years ago. Not that Ahsoka knew that.

“I mean,” he said casually. “If you’ve got an extra ticket or whatever.”

She didn’t even blink. “Cool. I’ll buy two.”

Mercifully, she went back to stacking books without further interrogation. Anakin exhaled through his nose and picked up a copy of Wuthering Heights , staring at it like it personally offended him.

The thing about Ahsoka was that she always knew when not to push. Which was why he’d let her move in with him and Luke after she started going to college and moved out of their mother and step dad's house, and why he trusted her with the store and, more importantly, for babysitting Luke. She was chaos incarnate, but she was his chaos.

“You’ve got ink on your face,” she said.

He wiped it with his sleeve. “Thanks.”

“No problem. Also, you look like you haven’t slept since 2014.”

“Accurate.”

They worked in silence for a while. Luke had started narrating his picture book aloud now, giving Jeff the Lion a thick Cockney accent for no discernible reason. It was almost eleven. The rain hadn’t stopped. A man came in, bought a Murakami paperback and a notebook, and left without saying a word. Anakin liked that. Customers who treated bookstores like churches.

“Obi-Wan’s coming over tonight,” he said finally.

Ahsoka groaned. “Are we having another wine fuelled existential debate about free will?”

“Probably.”

“Cool. I’ll stock up on popcorn.”

“Are you ever going to move out?”

“Absolutely not.”

He didn’t push it. And she didn’t apologise. That was the deal.

Outside, the rain slicked the pavement, turning everything the colour of metal. London was like that, cold and crowded and lonely in a way that made Anakin feel weirdly at home. The city kept moving, even when you didn’t. Especially when you didn’t.

Luke climbed into his lap without warning, and Anakin caught him automatically, one arm curled around the small, yoghurt smudged form. The kid smelled like apple juice and crayons. He was warm. Heavy with trust.

Anakin rested his chin on top of Luke’s head and watched Ahsoka sort books with theatrical flair, narrating each one like she was hosting a late night talk show. She’d started speaking in a posh accent, probably to annoy him.

“ Ah yes, here we have the latest from Sally Rooney! anguish, repression, and unattractive people making bad decisions. ”

Luke giggled.

The bell above the door jingled again.

And life went on. 

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A few days later, the morning after the cereal incident, Anakin made exactly one resolution: no surprises. No unexpected customers, no incidents with rogue Lego bricks, no spontaneous philosophical discussions about death with his four year old son.

He stuck to his usual ritual. Open the shop. Feed Luke half a banana and a cartoon. Tolerate Ahsoka’s playlist. Ignore Ahsoka’s commentary on her playlist.

The shop was calm. Not quiet, not with the street noise outside and Ahsoka singing along to a ‘00s guilty pleasure playlist, but calm in the way old houses are. A little creaky, a little crooked, but standing.

Anakin was reorganizing the poetry shelf for the third time that week, which was his passive aggressive way of coping with life. Some people journaled. Others went to therapy. He alphabetized Rainer Maria Rilke with the intensity of a man who’d rather do anything than acknowledge the black hole of loneliness gnawing at his insides.

It was a grey Thursday in London. Of course it was.

The bell above the bookstore door jingled, late, like it had forgotten how to be cheerful. A gust of wind followed the customer in, slapping the awning and scattering a few stubborn leaves through the threshold. Anakin didn't look up. Wind was always dramatic in this part of town.

What did catch his attention was Ahsoka, who suddenly froze in place behind the till like she’d seen a ghost. Or a limited edition Padmé Amidala: Black Swan Blu-ray set.

No. Worse.

She reached for the iPad stand like it was a weapon. “Oh my god,” she whispered, eyes wide. “That’s her. That’s actually her.”

Anakin, half-kneeling with a stack of battered Sylvia Plath collections, frowned. “Her who?”

“ Her her,” Ahsoka hissed, tilting the screen just enough for him to see the paused trailer. The perfectly lit face of Padmé Amidala, international actress, people’s icon, and Ahsoka’s number one comfort watch blinked back at him. “She’s here. In the store. Right now.”

Anakin blinked slowly. “Right.”

“No, like-ugh! Trench coat, sunglasses indoors, suspiciously oversized scarf. She’s doing the full I’m just a normal person at Tesco look, which means she’s definitely her.”

He sighed and stood, rubbing the small of his back like a man decades older than twenty-nine. “Are we sure she’s not just someone who’s seen Notting Hill too many times?”

Ahsoka ignored him, craning her neck over the counter. “She’s in the contemporary fiction section pretending to read Normal People. I don’t think she’s even flipped a page.”

He casually ( very casually) made his way over, like a man who didn’t alphabetize poetry for emotional stability. It wasn’t like he recognized her, not right away. She looked smaller in person, folded into herself in a long navy trench coat and dark glasses, staring hard at a table of discounted Sally Rooney like it held the secrets of the universe.

He cleared his throat. “Need help finding anything?”

She startled, barely, and looked up. Behind the sunglasses, her eyes were unreadable. She smiled. Polite. Soft. The kind of smile celebrities learned to give when pretending they hadn’t just been recognized.

“Just browsing,” she said, voice even and low.

It was a lovely voice. Warm. Familiar.

There was a beat of silence. Anakin, unfortunately, had been raised by chaos and had no idea what to do with moments like these except ruin them.

“You know,” he said lightly, “most people go for the hoodie-sunglasses combo if they’re trying not to be recognized. The trench coat sort of screams the spy novel protagonist on the run. ”

Her mouth twitched.

Damn. He was right, wasn’t he?

“I like spy novels,” she said, and turned back to the shelf.

Anakin swallowed. His brain was screaming. He ignored it.

“Cool. We’ve got a whole Le Carré section. Back left.”

She nodded, not moving.

So this was happening. Padmé Amidala , yes that Padmé, was standing in his shop, breathing the same air as his Sylvia Plath paperbacks, and possibly pretending she didn’t know who she was.

He backed away before he could say something catastrophic. Like my sister thinks you’re the sun incarnate or you’re the only celebrity whose interviews I’ve ever watched sober.

A smarter man would’ve left it at that.

But he wasn’t particularly smart these days.

Especially not when four year old Luke, his small, chaotic human hurricane of a son, decided to barrel into the place holding a picture book in one hand and a crumbling oat biscuit in the other.

“Daddy, look!” Luke shouted with the glee of a child who didn’t understand volume control. “A doggy with a hat!”

Padmé turned, ever so slightly.

And Luke, oh God bless Luke, blinked up at her and said in his most suspicious voice: “Are you famous?”

Anakin wanted to melt into the floor.

“Luke,” he said sharply, stepping in to intercept before the child started offering her stale biscuits or unprompted life advice. “We don’t ask people that.”

Padmé crouched to Luke’s level, sunglasses pushed up into her hair now, and smiled properly this time. Her eyes were lovely. And kind. And slightly amused. “Only a little,” she said, conspiratorial.

Luke gasped. “Like the Queen?”

Anakin clapped a hand over his face.

Ahsoka finally wandered over, looking dangerously thrilled. “Luke, don’t interrogate strangers,” she said, grinning at Padmé in a way that said I know exactly who you are but I am being chill, aren’t you impressed with my restraint?

Padmé laughed. Soft. Real. It sent a ripple of something awkward and warm down Anakin’s spine.

“I like your coat,” Luke declared.

Padmé looked down at herself. “Thanks. It’s good for spying.”

Luke looked at her very seriously. “Are you a spy?”

“No,” she said. “But I pretend to be a lot of things.”

Ahsoka made a sound that could only be described as a stifled squeal of joy disguised as a cough.

Anakin was one intrusive thought away from walking into traffic.

“I’ll just uh-” he gestured vaguely toward the back room. “Inventory.” Or existential dread. Whichever comes first.

Padmé straightened, still smiling faintly, but said nothing as he retreated. Anakin shut the door behind him and exhaled. Hard.

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The bell above the door jingled, sharp and sudden enough to startle Anakin from his increasingly panicked thoughts. He was in the back room, which was officially the "office" but really just a closet crammed with half sorted boxes and one sad, lonely chair. His hands were clenched into fists as if he could punch his way out of this situation.

He was not supposed to be panicking. It was just a bookstore. Just a person walking in.

Except, no.

The person walking in was Padmé Amidala, unmistakably so even with oversized sunglasses and a trench coat that looked like it was trying to scream “I’m not a celebrity, promise.” The kind of “not a celebrity” that only someone with very little imagination believed.

“Okay, okay, breathe,” Anakin muttered, pacing in circles that barely cleared the cramped space. “Act normal. Don’t say something dumb.”

From the front of the store came the unmistakable sound of Luke’s excited chatter, followed by Ahsoka’s barely contained grin.

Anakin pinched the bridge of his nose and tried to remind himself what normal looked like here. Normally, he dealt with dog eared poetry books and customers who wanted obscure science fiction. Not a celebrity in full “please don’t notice me” mode chatting with his kid and his sister.

He heard footsteps approach the back room and flinched. The door creaked open.

“Thought you might want some help,” Anakin said before he could lose whatever fragment of control he still had.

Padmé stepped inside, shedding the trench coat and hooking it over the crook of her elbow. Anakin’s throat tightened.

“Thanks,” she said simply.

He cleared his throat and gestured vaguely. “If you’re looking for something specific, I can show you around.”

She looked at him as if weighing the option, then nodded once.

Anakin blinked, trying to shake off the heat rushing to his face. “Right. Uh. Follow me.”

As he led her out, he caught Ahsoka’s eyes from behind the counter. She was biting the inside of her cheek, pretending to check a shelf but clearly trying not to burst out laughing.

Luke was still sitting cross legged on the floor, surrounded by stuffed animals arrayed like a council of spies. He grinned up at Padmé. “This is Mr. Fox. He’s a secret agent. But he’s nice. Like, a really nice spy.”

Padmé crouched down to Luke’s level and smiled softly. “A spy who’s nice? That sounds tricky.”

Luke nodded with all the solemnity a four year old could muster. “Sometimes spies have to be sneaky and nice. Like superheroes who don’t want to be seen.”

Anakin’s heart did that painfully familiar flip. He cleared his throat again and pointed toward the fiction section.

“Well, we’ve got plenty of  spy stories,” he said, trying for casual but landing somewhere between awkward and awkwarder.

“Actually…I was wondering,” she began, voice light, “if you could recommend a good book. Something... engaging.”

Anakin blinked.

“Engaging?” His mind scrambled, trying to interpret that. Was it a mystery? A thriller? Romance? Literary fiction? Nonfiction? Too many options, no clear direction. His chest tightened.

“Uh, sure. Absolutely,” he stammered. “Engaging. Right. Okay.”

He cleared his throat and turned, trying to appear like the very picture of expertise instead of a man about to have a full-on meltdown.

“Do you like... characters with a lot of depth? Or fast paced plots? Maybe something a little... lighter?”

Padmé tilted her head, watching him with an amused expression. “Something that holds your attention. But not too heavy.”

Anakin’s mind exploded into a dozen different book titles, none of which seemed quite right. His fingers twitched to grab a book, then hesitated.

Anakin paused, then his fingers found a book on a nearby shelf and he pulled it free, it was a worn hardcover with delicate gold lettering.

“This one is my favorite,” he admitted, holding it like it was a sacred relic. “ The Remains of the Day by Kazuo Ishiguro. It’s about memory, regret, dignity. The kind of story that sneaks into your heart and doesn’t leave.”

Padmé’s smile softened, and she took the book, flipping through the pages as if tasting the words.

Luke, perched nearby with his legs crossed, watched this exchange like it was the most fascinating thing he’d ever seen.

“Books are weird,” Luke declared, sounding suspicious.

Padmé crouched down next to him, tucking a stray curl behind his ear.

“Only if you don’t find the right one,” she said gently. “What kind of stories do you like?”

Luke’s eyes lit up.

“Adventures! With dragons! And secret hideouts! And animals that talk like people.”

Anakin’s face twitched into a smile.

“Well, we’ve got a whole shelf just for that,” he said, motioning toward the brightly colored covers at the back. “ The Tale of Despereaux is a good one, it’s about a brave little mouse and a princess, and it’s got all the talking animals you want.”

Padmé handed back The Remains of the Day to Anakin, who almost didn’t want to take it.

“That’s... a great recommendation,” she said softly.

Anakin swallowed hard.

Luke tugged on her sleeve. “Are you gonna buy a book?”

Padmé glanced up, eyes twinkling. “Maybe. If it has a brave mouse.”

Luke beamed.

Anakin stepped back, rubbing the back of his neck like a man who’d just survived a high wire act. Ahsoka appeared at his side, eyebrows raised in silent amusement.

“You’re melting,” she whispered.

“Shut up,” Anakin hissed, but the corner of his mouth betrayed him.

Padmé turned toward the exit, the book tucked under her arm.

“Thanks for your help,” she said. “I think I’ll take this one.”

She took two steps. Paused. Turned back.

“How much should I… pay for it? Or is this one on the house?”

Anakin blinked. “What?”

She held up the book slightly, amused. “The thing people usually do in stores. With money?”

“Oh. Right. Yes. Money.” Oh god he would never live this down. “I mean-yes, sorry, of course, let me just-”

He nearly knocked over a stack of bookmarks lunging for the register. Padmé smiled as she approached the counter, clearly enjoying herself.

Ahsoka, beside him, whispered, “5 pounds says he forgets how the till works.”

Luke nodded solemnly. “Daddy’s pressing the wrong buttons.”

Padmé handed over a note, placed deliberately in his palm. Her fingers brushed his. Anakin was pretty sure he blacked out for a second.

“There,” she said. “Now it’s official.”

“Right. Yes. Official,” he mumbled. “Thank you. For… paying.”

The bell chimed again as the door closed behind her — this time, the book legally obtained. Anakin stared after her, dazed.

Ahsoka clapped him on the shoulder. “Well done, big brother. You almost gave away free merchandise.”

“She paid,” Anakin said defensively, though he couldn’t stop the smile tugging at his mouth.

“Because she remembered.”

“Details,” he muttered. But the knot inside him had loosened. Maybe too much. 

Chapter Text

The door shut behind her with a jingle that sounded way too smug for a piece of metal attached to a string.

Anakin stared at it like it might explode. His hand was still half raised from where she'd brushed her fingers against his. The note she’d given him was safely tucked in the till, which he had definitely remembered how to operate, despite Ahsoka’s commentary. It was a normal transaction. Very standard. Incredibly normal.

He was fine.

“You’re not fine,” Ahsoka said cheerfully, appearing at his elbow like a demon summoned by emotional repression.

“I’m fine.”

“You’re freaking out.”

“I’m standing.”

“You’re freaking out while standing,” she corrected. “Which is impressive, really. You looked like you were going to pass out when she said the word ‘official.’ I half expected you to ask her to sign your shirt.”

Anakin opened his mouth. Closed it again. Rubbed the back of his neck like he could scrub the moment off his skin.

“She bought a book,” he said, like that was the whole story. “That’s all. Customers do that.”

Ahsoka made a sound that could only be described as a delighted snort. “Right, yes, the classic customer experience: enter in disguise, flirt with the emotionally stunted shopkeeper, charm the child, and leave with a Kazuo Ishiguro novel and half a nervous breakdown.”

“It wasn’t flirting.”

“Oh my god, you recommended her your favourite book,” she said, eyes wide with theatrical horror. “That’s basically second base.”

Luke, still seated on the floor and now carefully feeding Mr. Fox the last crumb of his biscuit, perked up. “Is she coming back?”

Anakin blinked. “What?”

“The spy lady,” Luke clarified. “She smelled like oranges. I think she’s a wizard. Or a nice dragon.”

Anakin blinked again, slower this time. “What.”

“She crouched,” Luke said, like that explained everything. “Only nice dragons crouch. The mean ones stay tall and scary.”

“That’s a solid theory, buddy,” Ahsoka said, crouching next to him. “Did you like her?”

Luke nodded so hard his curls bounced. “She talked to Mr. Fox like he was real.”

“He is real,” Ahsoka said solemnly. “He’s been through a lot. Spy work is brutal.”

Luke gasped in sympathy and hugged the stuffed animal tightly and rested his chin on it's head.

Anakin pinched the bridge of his nose and contemplated whether it was too early in the day to fake a power outage and lock the shop from the outside.

Ahsoka stood, stretching with a dramatic groan. “Anyway. I’m printing T-shirts. ‘I survived a Padmé Amidala encounter.’ Want one in maroon to match your sweater stain?”

“I will throw you out a window.”

“You’d have to label them first.”

He made a strangled noise. She beamed.

Luke wandered over and tugged at Anakin’s sleeve. “Daddy, if she’s a dragon, do you think she lives in a cave?”

Anakin blinked at him. “Probably a really fancy cave. With central heating.”

Luke nodded, thoughtful. “And books. For the talking animals.”

“Sounds about right.”

The bell above the door jangled again, just a delivery this time. Rain still slicked the pavement, and London had resumed its usual greyscale rhythm like nothing had happened. Like Padmé Amidala hadn’t walked into his dusty bookstore and made everything smell like mystery and high end conditioner.

Anakin groaned and walked into the back room. Not because he needed to. Just because he could. Ahsoka followed.

“Please stop” he muttered.

“Absolutely not.”

Luke, left alone with Mr. Fox, placed him reverently on top of The Tale of Despereaux and whispered, “We’ll find her cave. Don’t worry.”

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It stopped raining around two.

Not that it got brighter, the sky just went from full cinematic gloom to washed-out melancholy, like a sad film had adjusted the saturation. The puddles outside the shop shimmered in the light like they were trying too hard. Ahsoka had moved on from Britney to Fleetwood Mac, and Anakin was beginning to suspect she was soundtracking his emotional collapse on purpose.

Luke was sitting cross-legged behind the counter, colouring a picture of what looked like a giraffe but was apparently a fire-breathing squirrel named Harold. He’d stopped asking about the dragon-spy lady every ten minutes and was now working in silence, brow furrowed in the way only small children and tortured poets ever really pulled off.

Anakin was starting to relax. A mistake, obviously.

“Daddy?” Luke said suddenly, not looking up from his scribbles.

Anakin blinked, wary. “Yeah, bud?”

“I want the sticky thing.”

“…What kind of sticky thing?”

“You know,” Luke said patiently. “The sticky pudding thing.”

There was a pause. Ahsoka leaned around the shelf and mouthed what??

“A… sticky toffee pudding?” Anakin guessed.

Luke lit up like Christmas. “Yes! That! Sticky pudding! From the place with the nice cups!”

Anakin sighed. “You mean the overpriced coffee shop that spells my name like ‘Antony’ and gave you a free babyccino once.”

Luke nodded solemnly. “Yes please.”

Ahsoka snorted. At least Luke had said please.

Anakin sighed internally and muttered, “Back in twenty,” before grabbing his coat and trudging out towards the shop just down the street. 

On the short walk to reach there, he had appreciated Luke had only asked for a slightly overpriced dessert today and not some overly obscure question like do the fishies feel thirsty and drink some of the ocean water? 

The coffee shop smelled like cinnamon, desperation, and oat milk. Anakin ordered the pudding, a lukewarm croissant he didn’t want, and a black coffee he absolutely did. He tipped the teenager at the counter out of guilt for the entire state of the world and left with a paper bag in one hand and his coffee in the other.

The street outside was still wet, the sky doing that grey and white thing that made everything feel vaguely haunted.

Which was probably why he didn’t see her.

One minute, he was walking.

The next-

“Oh, shit-”

He collided with someone, shoulder first, and felt the traitorous splash of lukewarm coffee hit something that definitely wasn’t pavement.

“Jesus, I’m so-” He looked up.

Padmé Amidala was standing in front of him, staring down at the fresh brown stain on the front of her pale beige sweater, her navy trench coat still hooked over her elbow.

“Well. That’s one way to say hello.”

Anakin made a strangled noise. “I’m- oh god. I didn’t see you! I-I wasn’t uhm-my kid, this was supposed to be a quick coffee run-” He trailed off, horrified.

Padmé looked down at the stain like it was a minor inconvenience, then back up at him with a dry little smile.

“It’s fine,” she said. “I’ve survived worse, a seagull once threw up on me in Venice.”

Anakin blinked. “That’s horrifying.”

“Right?” she said, like it was a fond memory. “And you are?”

“Oh.” He remembered names were a thing people exchanged. “Anakin. Skywalker. I own the bookstore.”

She grinned. “I know. I’ve been there.”

“Right. Yeah. Obviously.”

She stuck out her hand. “Padmé.”

“I know,” he said, then immediately regretted it. “I mean, I figured. From the movies. Not like stalker-know.”

Padmé’s smile twitched. “Noted.”

He was still awkwardly shaking her hand. It was warm. Soft. He tried not to think about the coffee incident. 

He quickly remembered and was already pulling napkins out of his coat pocket like that would help. “Are you okay? That looks bad. I have um I live just near the shop, if you want to, I don’t know uh fix that? Not that I’m suggesting! It’s just uh-”

She tilted her head slightly, one brow raised in something like curiosity. “You’re inviting me to your house?”

Anakin blinked. “No! I mean. Yes. I mean, only if you want to. I just spilled coffee on you. It feels…wrong to let you walk around with a coffee stain on your sweater.”

There was a pause.

Then she smiled, soft and unreadable. “Alright.”

He cleared his throat and started walking, the bag with the pudding suddenly feeling very awkward in his grip. He could hear the clicking of Padmé’s heels next to him, the only sound grounding him to reality instead of running for the hills. She had several shopping bags in her hand which she hadn’t when she had breezed into the store earlier. 

He stole a glance at her as they were silently walking side by side and was mildly shocked to find no sense of annoyance on her face despite the coffee stain probably ruining an expensive sweater. He couldn’t see her eyes, though, because she’d popped her enormous black shades back on.

That’s a shame she has such beautiful-

What. 

He shifted the pudding bag again, wondering if it was possible to drown in awkwardness. Thankfully, the walk from the coffee spilling alley to his house was only a brisk five minutes. Short enough that he might survive this encounter without turning into a puddle.

His tiny flat was wedged between an old hair boutique and an even more ancient travel bookstore. The place was small, with brick walls and a royal egg blue front door. Chic, if you squinted hard and ignored the peeling paint.

He unlocked the door with a click that echoed way too loudly in the bustling streets of London, and gestured for her to step inside reluctantly.

“Uh, right this way” he said, stepping aside with an awkward half smile as he opened the door for her and let her step inside. 

Please ignore the mess, and please don’t look in the corners.

Padmé stepped in, taking it all in like she was trying to guess which one of Luke's colourful plastic dinosaur toys someone would eventually have the misfortune of tripping on. Anakin’s gaze flickered down to the living room where crayons were spread all over the coffee table and a half-dismantled Lego spaceship was lying on the carpet.

Anakin’s voice pitched an octave higher than intended. “Uh. Sorry. It’s a bit...lived-in.”

Padmé crouched and picked up a bright orange block, turning it over in her hands with a smile that was warm and patient and a little bit amused. “It’s alright. I don’t mind.”

It’s alright

Her words were bouncing around Anakin’s chest heavily, and he could feel his cheeks involuntarily turning a shade of pink

“I try. Controlled chaos, mostly. Luke’s world tends to expand to cover every available surface.” 

Padmé laughed softly, eyes flicking up to him. “I like it. It feels like home.”

He cleared his throat and pointed down the hallway. “There’s a spare bathroom, second door on the left if you want to change.”

She nodded, her fingers brushing the shopping bag she’d carried in. “Thanks.” Then she disappeared down the hall.

Anakin stood there for a moment, watching the door close behind her and the faint sound of running water begin.

Great. Time to stand in the kitchen and pretend to rearrange mugs for no reason.

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After ten minutes had passed, the bathroom door creaked open and Padmé stepped out, looking so casually radiant that Anakin was briefly concerned the lighting in his hallway might explode.

She’d changed into something simple: dark jeans, a soft oatmeal-coloured jumper, hair down and slightly damp. She adjusted the strap of her bag, caught him looking, and gave a polite smile like maybe she hadn’t noticed him short-circuiting in real time.

“Better?” he managed.

“Much,” she said. “Thanks.”

She was clearly ready to leave, bag in hand and a polite expression engaged, already half-turned toward the door.

Panic lit up in his chest like a fire alarm.

“Do you want something to drink?” he blurted.

She blinked. Anakin internally cringed at the amused expression on her face and again wondered just how he had managed to end up in this situation. 

“Tea? Coffee? Orange juice? Water? Sparkling water? Ice-cold still water? Apricot juice?” His soul immediately exited his body and crawled under the kitchen table.

She raised an eyebrow. “Apricot juice?”

“I think someone gave it to me. It’s still in the fridge. It’s been there for a while. Like... a concerning while.” 

A pause. A long second passed. “No,” she said gently. “Thank you.”

He nodded awkwardly and adjusted the glasses on his nose.  “Of course. Naturally.”

She smiled again, softer this time. “Well. Thank you. For everything.”

She turned to the door, and because he had no control over his own mouth, because his brain had left the building three interactions ago, he heard himself say:

“It was nice to meet you. Surreal. But... nice.”

He muttered a quiet apology before she could reply, stepped forward, and opened the door for her, his entire soul peeling off in embarrassment. She looked up at him with a cool and composed expression, the glasses back on her face and gave him a half-smile. She turned away from him and then stepped out into the grey London afternoon without a word.

The door shut behind her with a very smug click. 

Anakin stood there. Frozen in shock and horrified at his stupidity.

“Surreal but nice”? What was I thinking??

He dragged a hand down his face like it might help erase the last thirty seconds from existence. It didn’t. Nothing could. He was going to have to move. Change names. Open a bookstore on another continent. Convince Luke and Ahsoka to-

A knock. Anakin blinked in confusion and stepped forward to open the door.

The door creaked open again, and Padmé stepped just inside, giving him a polite smile while gently removing her glasses to reveal her warm brown eyes.

“I forgot my bag.” 

He nodded and quickly scrambled for it, nearly tripping over Luke’s plastic dinosaurs on the way, and handed it to her without meeting her eyes. The silence that followed was... dense. Charged in the way elevators are when they stop between floors.

She didn’t leave. Instead, she looked up at him with a slight, hesitant look on her face. Her eyes were fixed on the slope of his nose where his glasses were sliding out of position, and it made him realise just how close she was standing in front of him. He could feel one of the shopping bags in her hands brush his knee, and notice the slight shade of red blooming high on her cheeks.

And before his brain could generate a single helpful thought, before he could even begin to understand what was happening, she leaned in and pressed her soft lips against his in a gentle kiss. Her free hand wrapped around his neck awkwardly, and Anakin felt his mind going into shock, which rendered his body paralysed. Every nerve went on red alert. His limbs turned to concrete. 

He kept both his hands suspended mid-air, frozen between instinct and fear, wanting to pull her closer, to touch her, make sure this wasn’t just a hallucination brought on by stress and apricot juice. But he didn’t move. Because some unhelpful, ancient part of his brain was terrified that if he touched her, she’d vanish.

It wasn’t a dramatic kiss. Just soft and certain and a little awkward in the way that made his heart slam against his ribs. Her fingers brushed the long blonde hair gathered at the nape of his neck, a move so casual it felt violently personal. Her mouth was warm as she slid closer to him for just a second before pulling away. The kiss barely lasted more than a few seconds, but it was the kind of few seconds that rearranged every cell in his body.

There was a silence afterwards. Not the normal kind, no, this was the loud kind. The kind that buzzed in his ears and made him hyper aware of everything: the faint hum of the fridge, the distant rumble of traffic, the way his lungs had apparently forgotten how to function without specific instructions.

Padmé stepped back, not far, just enough to look at him properly. Her expression was unreadable. Probably because his brain had exited the premises and taken all his social skills with it.

Anakin’s hands were still in the air. Great. That wasn’t weird at all.

He blinked, finally lowering them with all the grace he did not posses. His mouth opened, probably to say something suave and unforgettable-

“I’m very sorry about the... surreal but nice comment…disaster.”

Smooth. Very smooth.

Padmé smiled, and it hit him with the same intensity as the kiss. “It’s okay,” she said. “I thought the apricot thing was the real low point.”

He laughed, startled, and it came out a little too loud and a lot too honest for his liking. Before he could reply, his phone started buzzing loudly in his pocket.

He winced. “Sorry, hang on. It’s probably my sister.” It probably wasn’t Ahsoka but Luke calling him from the bookstore’s landline. That wasn’t even technically a lie. It just sounded better than “the four year old tyrant who rules my life.”

Padmé raised a brow but didn’t look annoyed, just amused. Still here, still standing in his very real, very small hallway after kissing him like it was something she'd been planning all day.

“Hello?”

“Daddy?” Luke’s voice exploded through the speaker at full volume and he was sure Padmé could hear his voice clearly.

“Where are you? Mr. Fox said you forgot the sticky toffee pudding!”

Anakin chuckled, scratching the back of his neck. “I did not forget the pudding, Luke. I’ll be there at the shop in five minutes.”

Luke’s voice lowered conspiratorially: “Promise you didn’t eat any on the way?”

Anakin smiled, heart softening. “I haven’t buddy, I promise. I’ll see you soon, okay?”

“Okay! Bye daddy!” Luke exclaimed and hung up the phone. Anakin smiled softly and tucked his phone back in his pocket.

Across from him, Padmé let out the quietest laugh. She wasn’t smirking exactly, but the corner of her mouth was doing something suspicious. A few seconds passed, not the awkward kind, and Anakin took advantage of this moment to allow his eyes to flicker over her face like he was trying to memorise it without being caught in the act.

Then she said, lightly, “Probably best not to tell anyone about this.”

Anakin nodded too fast. “Right. Right, yeah. Of course.”

She turned slightly, like she was about to go, and for a second, he thought that was it, that this moment would dissolve into memory and he’d stand here replaying it until his brain melted.

“Well... I mean, I’ll probably tell myself about it sometimes, but don’t worry. I won’t believe it.” Of course, because he didn’t know when to shut up.

Padmé glanced back at him with a slight smile, and the faint blush from earlier had returned to her cheeks.

“Goodbye, Anakin.” she whispered softly, and her voice sent a strange, aching echo down the back of his ribs.

He nodded. Or at least, he thought he did. His limbs felt suspiciously unreliable.

“Bye,” he managed, which felt tragically insufficient.

The door shut with a soft click as she left, and Anakin stood there for a full ten seconds before exhaling loudly, still not fully believing he wasn’t dreaming

He glanced at the fridge, where the toffee pudding was probably sweating through the paper bag.

Right. Pudding. Child. Reality.