(A/N) Fair warning, lot of sadness there at the end. Hope you enjoy though, the OTP feelings are real. Please read and review, let me know what you think :)

"My dear, Obi-Wan…"

They were alone. Finally. After the incident on the Cornet, no one had wanted to leave her side, she had been bustled around, moved from room to room of the Senate, receiving apologies and well wishes from people she didn't know. He had returned to the temple, separated from her by these charges, but now…now they were alone.

She was no Jedi, but she could practically feel the emotions running off of him. Ones she shared, desires she felt as well. And now, after two decades apart, they could have a night together. For themselves. For each other. His arms came around her. "I thought I…that I…I thought you were lost, Satine." He says into her hair, and she realizes that he has never been the most articulate when it comes to his feelings. She doesn't care. Whatever he feels, she has heard it already; he would have left for her. While it's not an option for either of them now, it is enough.

"You should have known better, Obi-Wan." She doesn't feel like wasting time, like taking this slowly. But that is what she knows is right. It doesn't mean she can't instigate it by sliding nimble fingers along the threading of his tunic; undoing the knots while she pressed her head to his shoulder. "I have never been lost with you there to help me." His hold on her tightens, and she thinks that maybe this has affected him more than she thought. But this, this physical action is a natural reaction to death; perhaps his action is only a simple reaction to her hand that is now running a path down his exposed shoulder, over his chest, and to his back.

"I hope that's always the case then," he says softly, and pulls back from her to shrug the loose fabric from his shoulders. He is teasing, and she smiles a thin-lipped smile at him. He has changed so much, and yet still, there is that hint of everything she remembers. It is almost as though he has finally aged to fit the demeanor he always had, and though she is loathe to admit it, the beard suits the cut of his cheeks and frames his face rather nicely.

They haven't kissed yet, this she is conscious of; but how do you say you want to kiss a man who you haven't kissed in so long? She thinks she might have forgotten how to kiss someone she has actually loved; only how to have fake, placid kisses with men who have courted her. One who died and left her again to rule her planet alone. It takes effort for her to remember his face, it is not something she had held dear as she has the one in front of her now, fitted with eyes that are ever-changing in their color and viewing her with a mix of longing and muted guilt.

But to her relief, she doesn't have to wait to find out how to kiss him; he presses his forehead to hers, looking deeply at her, and goes halfway to her lips before she meets him. It's buzzing with life, with a kind of energy she hasn't felt in such a long time. He tilts his head, and she does the same; they are intertwined, enantiomers that reflect one another in such a small space. She tastes him carefully, an electric ripple coming through her as his mouth opens and his own tongue slides past hers. This is an exploration she hasn't been parlay to in so long; she runs a hand over his chest, threading her fingers through the soft, ginger hair their, carful not to pull it. She hears what might be a faint moan from him, and swallows it amidst one in a series of long kisses.

When they do pull apart, he's panting, his large hands wrapping around each side of her waist, having finished cupping her face and threading through her hair. He smiles down at her. "You don't know how much I've wanted to do that today, Satine." He says, and she has to laugh. It is good to be lighthearted, especially with him, who is always so serious.

"I wouldn't object to another one," She says, in the most diplomatic tone she can manage before sliding her hands down from where they've been on the small of his back to give him a playful squeeze. He blushes lightly, though she admits it is hard to see through the hair. "But I need your help first, Master Jedi." And before he can truly react, she's broken them apart, spinning around with her back to him, gathering the long blonde hair that has fallen down in waves since she removed her headdress.

She feels his long fingers go to the small zipper at the top of it, and feels the two sides of the fabric split apart as she stands. She pulls it from her own arms, stepping out of it, but back into him. She moves to turn, but feels instead, his arms slide fully around her, his hands locking together in the front his head on her bare shoulder.

"I would tell you you're beautiful, Satine; but to say that would only undersell every other thing about you." He places an open-mouthed kiss on her throat, she leans back on his shoulder. "A woman such as you is far more than beautiful." He places another kiss to her neck, and she feels herself giving off soft, inviting moans that elicit the motion of his broad hands over her bare stomach and sides, pulling her even close to his body.

She can't help but gasp, feeling his arousal pressed against her; and he steps away, worried that he's frightened her. "I'm sorry…" He begins, but is silenced by a single finger. Before she says anything to him, her hands slide from his lips to his broad shoulders to his chest to his ribs to his sides to his hips, where the tips of her fingers venture just under his waistband.

"Don't be sorry, Ben," She breathes out, beginning to slide the fabric down his legs. "Not for this." When he steps out of them, he leans down to pull her into another kiss which she knows will only make her want more of them. She feels his hands move over her still-clothed backside, lingering only a moment before one slides under her legs, lifting her in the air to close the few remaining feet to the bed.

She feels the soft blankets they've supplied this room with around her skin, and the weight of him come down next to her on the blankets. Her lips never leave his. He tastes of mint tea. He pulls back though, and drags the back of his hand down the sharp cut of her jaw, a touch that only adds to the mounting pressure she can feel. It may not be as apparent as his, tenting his boxers, but's it's there; coiling and twisting with desire for him. "You ahven't called me Ben in a very long time."

"Since we were on the run." She says, "I still say it suits you quite well." He laughs gently again and kisses the corner of her lips, then presses a series of soft kisses to her neck. She closes her eyes, savoring the feeling of him working his way down her body, kissing the tops of her breasts; dragging fingers over her stomach, drawing a soft circle on her navel.

She sits up, pulling him with her, willing him to get the message. He slides the hand from her stomach to her back, undoing her bra clasp in a swift motion, the strapless hold falling forward. She knows she's never had particularly large breasts, not like the women in magazines that others consider beautiful. But, seeing his eyes darken as he sees her exposed skin; she knows he doesn't mind. "I can't help it, Satine…" he pauses, and meets her eyes, his pupils dilated, his eyes dark. "You're beautiful." And, in an old motion he must have remembered; he forgoes touching them with his hands, and presses soft kisses to them.

She twists her fingers in his short hair, pulling them closer to her skin, moaning freely as his tongue moves over her skin and over her nipples. "There are worse things," And she realizes she's breathing harder than normal. "Than calling a woman beautiful." And he's moving over the other one, just as insistently, coiling the knot in her stomach tighter and tighter. He presses a final kiss to the valley between them, pulling back to look at her again, smiling softly.

"But you are much more than that." He says quite seriously, and she only raises her eyebrows at him, smiling. He starts to kiss his way down her skin again, moving down her body, down the bed until his hands are holding her legs apart, and she can feel the gentle caress of his lips on her thighs. She squirms against his touch, he's so close to where she needs touched that it's almost painful.

Finally, when there's nothing left for him to do but undress her, her rolls the fabric down her legs, throwing it off into the darkened room behind her. "You're brilliant." A gentle kiss falls on her ankle. "Strong." Another on the crook of her knee. "Eloquent." Another on her inner thigh. "Kind. Powerful. Enigmatic. Gorgeous." And between each one, he burns another path into her skin until his lips meet hers again and she's lost in the taste of him, the feel of each one of his kisses over her body. She runs her hand along his back, pressing hard so the feeling might linger for a moment.

She knows she needs him, and her hands find their way to his boxers, peeling them down, off of his body. She can feel his shudder as she drags her fingers along his back. She feels the sharp cut of his hips bone, and traces it down to his throbbing arousal. He groans over her, one of the first noises she's heard from him. The sounds he's making only make the throbbing know in her stomach tighter, she wants him to touch her, so badly she moves her legs to where he's now settled between her legs.

He presses his hand against her wrist, and she release him, immediately feeling his lips latch back onto hers. She kisses him deeply, shifting her hips again as one of his fingers slides against and then into her. Followed by another, slowly moving in and out of her; a third one brushing against her sensitive bundle of nerves. "Obi.." She gasps, hands clutching either sides of his face, pulling him back to look at her. "Make love to me." He's never been one to deny her, and now is no exception.

His fingers leave her, empty, but moments later, he's pressing into her; twin moans mingling in the air between them. Her hands go to his shoulder blades, her legs wrapping around his waist; she wonders if he knows the power of his slow thrusts. He alternates between kissing her fiercely and groaning into her shoulder, his pace quickening each time she digs her nails into his skin. She moans, holding him close, her whole body tingling, that burn in her stomach finally being satisfied with each gesture.

His fingers move back down, playing against those same nerves, and she can feel her hands holding more stiffly onto his shoulder blades which are tightening with the coming release. "I had almost forgotten." He whispers, taking a moment to suck gently on one of her nipples, eliciting a gasp. "How this feels."

"It's been a long time." She pants, letting her eyes roll back in her head, "Too long." She starts to grind her hips with his and he gasps out her name. They're both close, so close. And when it hits her, brought on by his fingers and his hurried thrusting, it's white hot. She grabs him, pulls him close, feeling his release, hearing him shout her name, kissing him softly as they ride down their highs together.

"I've loved you always."

He wakes up in a cold sweat. He could swear she was hear, lying next to him; but all that is there is dust, blown in through the cracks in the wall. He covers his face in his hands, trying to forget what he thought was a memory long buried. But he cannot forget, every image of her face, along with Anakin's, Padme's Ahsoka's, Qui-Gon's, play cruelly against his brain.

He looks down at his body, riddled with scars, and can recall the exact path of her fingers; the touches of her lips as they made love and laid together afterward. Her soothing touches the morning after, when he had truly woken up in her arms; if he hadn't spent so many years keeping his feelings at bay, wouldn't be able to hold back tears that he could feel pressing at his eyes.

He laid back down, pushing his hair off his face, and laughed. Not a happy laugh, not exactly. How strange it was that everyone who had bothered to ask now knew him as Ben. She had said it suited him, in their youth, when they were reunited; she must have been right. He laughed again, realizing she had always been right. About him, about them, about the war, about life; and now, he only wish he had listened.

But he stood, and went on about his day regardless; going through the moisture vaporators; tending the small desert garden where he grew his food, cooking himself some semblance of a meal, and then laid back down. It was only then that the tears did come, held at bay for so long, because he realized that never, not a single time, had he ever said that he loved her. Implied it, yes; shown it, maybe; but he had not offered her that small courtesy of saying it. And now, like so many other things, it was far too late.

"I always will."