In the chaos surrounding their first meeting, she never expected that he would become as important as he did afterwards. Still, she was drawn to him from the start, and she knew it. There was a period when she expected each time she saw him to be the last, but it never was. He would show up when she least expected it—when she was most certain he was gone forever.
He was reckless in an extraordinarily lucky sort of way. Things usually went well for him, and to hear him tell it, anything that went wrong wasn't his fault. She was more cautious, a caution that came from being the voice of leadership for others. He was a loner; she was community-oriented. Most of their clashes were on this front—the ones that weren't were generally about his need for immediate action, his dislike of discussing things with a committee.
Even after she had known him for years, even after he had proven over and over how adept he was at getting out of the toughest scrapes, she still worried about him. He would frequently come home from a mission with his ship in dire need of repair and his person evidencing similar needs. She would tend to his wounds and ask him what happened, and he would reassure her that he had everything under control, that she never had anything to worry about, that no matter what happened he would always, always come back. Then he would be off on the next mission, and despite what he said, she would worry anyway. Sometimes she wondered how she could be so sure of him and so afraid for him in the same moment.
"Why did I ever marry you?" she asked playfully one day, shaking her head.
"Because I'm a scoundrel," he smirked. "There weren't enough scoundrels in your life."
"I'm a politician," she replied. "I'm surrounded by scoundrels."
"None like me," he said, leaning towards her.
She stretched up to meet him.
"None like you, Anakin."