Running away is never a good idea. Unless you find yourself severely outnumbered, out-gunned, or she tells you she's pregnant.
—Honor Among Thieves, by Inalia and Fox Kenobi

Obi-Wan stood where he was for a long time after Padme left. For a while, he was only conscious of his body: racing pulse, effusive perspiration that drenched his palms, poured down his spine, and made his back itch. His robes were sticking to him worse than they had during the heat of the day in Mos Espa. Attraction lingered, a warm and dangerous glow within him, but its heat had been doused by fear and confusion.

Neither of those feelings was going to help him, he realized, retreating toward the reassuring, cool emptiness of his Jedi training. It was cooling there, tranquil, and he would be able to find his center again if only he could remain there. He needed to be grounded in the things he knew to be true, not lost in the feel of her skin against the back of his hand, the heady and intoxicating scent of her closeness. He could still feel her fingers; it had taken every shred of discipline he possessed not to turn his hand.

Why did he want that touch so much? He couldn't remember when such simple, tactile contact had affected him so deeply. Then again, he couldn't exactly recall the last time he had been touched the way that she had. Jedi were not given to displays of affection, physical or otherwise. Qui-Gon was far from a typical Jedi; he doled out small gestures of approval with what, for a Jedi Master, was unusual frequency. Even then, those occasions could not be described as common or lengthy: a pat on the shoulder, a clap on the back. Obi-Wan could not remember ever having been hugged, and the kind of touch that Padme had offered him tonight was even more alien.

It had seemed so natural to her, beginning in innocence, no more than the sort of kindness that she might show Anakin or Jar Jar. Then it became more. He felt again her dawning arousal, her realization, and his own thrill—frightening relief, intense happiness, then pure panic—at the knowledge that she felt as he did. She cared for him. She wanted him. Desire flared.

Stop.

He scrubbed his face with his hands.

Stop.

He tried to turn his mind away—tried to call up the Jedi Code. Then he remembered the hurt he had sensed in her when he didn't take her hand, and it stabbed at him. He couldn't stop it, couldn't distance himself from the onslaught of guilt, shame, remorse. It came first for what he had unwittingly done to her, when she was the last person on whom he wanted to inflict pain. It worsened as he considered the betrayal he was committing, even by allowing these feelings to take root—betrayal of his commitment to the Order and worse to his own beliefs. Then it doubled as his mind returned to Padme and how kind she had been to him in return for his indifferent treatment.

He didn't know why he had asked her about her mother. He'd had no intention of doing so until he spoke the question. They had been talking about her mother and sister earlier, and he had felt a certain amount of curiosity, but there had been no pressing need to know anything about those women. Except that they were part of Padme, and the more that she had spoken of herself and her family, the more he had wanted to know. In fact, he wanted to know everything he could about her. He suddenly craved knowledge of her almost as powerfully as he did the lingering of her fingers against his skin.

Pressing his fingers to his eyes, he reminded himself that this was not helping. He needed clarity; allowing his thoughts to dwell on Padme was producing anything but. He dragged in a long breath and slowly expelled it, repeated the process. The desert air had become decidedly chilled, but he welcomed its sharp tang in his lungs. It forced his mind away from Padme, and cold air on his sweat-damp skin made him shiver, but even that was helpful.

He held himself utterly still, focused on breathing, until the stillness of his flesh became stillness of mind. Into it, he then breathed the Jedi Code, words he had been taught to repeat before he could even truly comprehend their meaning. They brought him focus and grounding now, and in them, he began to find balance.

"There is no emotion, there is peace.
There is no ignorance, there is knowledge.
There is no passion, there is serenity.
There is no chaos, there is harmony.
There is no death, there is the Force."

Usually, he would not have spoken the words aloud. Now he did, using sound to reinforce each tenet as his mind touched on it. When he was finished, he repeated the Code again. Then he resumed his stillness, not moving or speaking again until he had emptied himself of emotion.

Thus prepared, he walked back into the house, intending to sleep and content that in the morning, he would find his feelings for Padme Naberrie much less troublesome. He had only been distracted by her touch; now that he had his own feelings in hand—

He stopped short at the sight of her calmly sewing beside Shmi, their dark heads bent with serene beauty over their work. She looked up at him and smiled again. Why did her smile have to be so breathtaking? His knees suddenly turned to water.

"I thought you were going to bed," he said, managing to keep his voice merely polite.

"I couldn't sleep," she shrugged.

He nodded then turned his gaze toward Shmi. "I'd like to lie down, if you'll show me where. We have a lot to accomplish tomorrow."

She inclined her head in acknowledgement and set aside her mending. Pushing herself to her feet, she said, "I'm afraid you'll both have to bed down on the floor in here. I've already put Jar Jar on the floor in Ani's room. There is nowhere else, but I have some extra blankets."

He carefully made certain that he showed no reaction and followed the woman to the closet. There was no door, only a recessed opening in the wall the same shape as the rounded entrance to the hovel. Inside were mostly cleaning implements and shelves containing some mismatched tools that he assumed she used in whatever work she did for Watto. The topmost shelf held a meager bundle of gray blankets, which she gathered and handed to Obi-Wan with a casual air.

He swallowed, eyeing them nervously then looked from Shmi to Padme, who had come up behind him. Padme shot the older woman an amused glance, which Shmi returned before smoothly slipping away from them and disappearing into her bedroom. Turning to face Padme, Obi-Wan coughed.

Handing the bundle of bedding to her with what he thought was exceedingly good grace, he said, "It's a big floor. I'll…sleep over there."

He gestured vaguely toward a corner by the door, but she arched her eyebrow. "On the floor?"

"Why not?"

"It's dirt. It's cold," she replied.

"I've slept on worse than dirt floors before. It'll be fine for a night or two. I'd rather you have the blankets. As you said, it's cold," he said dismissively.

"I'd rather you didn't sleep on the floor," she said with a hint of stubbornness.

"I don't mind."

"I mind!" she kept her voice low, but there was a clear command in his gaze.

He bristled, but he kept his voice cool and polite. "I will be fine, thank you."

"Obi-Wan, we can both be warm if we each stay on our own sides and turn our backs," she crossed her arms.

"I'm not entirely sure that's a good idea," he crossed his own arms in response. "Besides, it's not that cold."

"Then you take the blankets," she challenged.

"I don't want to!"

"Why not? If it's not that cold, I should be fine," she insisted.
He could clearly see what she was doing—attempting to make him recognize the foolishness of his own position by turning the tables on him. She no more wanted to sleep on the floor than he did. The fact was, he felt foolish. He still didn't want to sleep with her though—

Next to! he corrected himself, covering his face with his hand. She apparently took his blush as a sign of some other kind of embarrassment, and she let a soft sigh escape her lips. The kindly reassuring girl of earlier was gone now; in her place was a cool, poised, and determined creature who eyed him with the set expression of someone well used to having her words heeded.

"I am an adult," she said slowly and formally. "However, if the Jedi Arts demand that you sleep on the cold floor and shiver all night, that is your right."

His mouth fell open, but she had already whirled and strode away from him, moving over toward the far wall to spread out the blankets. He stared at her, taken aback both by her frank confrontation of what was happening between them and by the suddenly authoritative manner in a girl who lived as a personal servant to a monarch.

"Padme, I didn't—" he began then broke off with a defeated sigh, trudging over to help her. "You are right. I apologize."

The set of her shoulders rounded a bit, and she looked up at him contritely, "I didn't mean to be harsh. I'm sorry, too."

A small smile quirked over his lips as they finished with the bedding. "Perhaps we could just start this whole thing over."

She straightened, smiling, and extended her hand to him across the blankets. "Hi. I'm Padme."

Obi-Wan laughed despite himself, and before he realized what he was doing, he reached out to clasp the hand she offered. "I'm Obi-Wan."

She inclined her head, a laugh teasing around the edges of her full mouth. "A pleasure, sir."

"The pleasure is mine," he replied, keeping his own smile firmly in place. He didn't think she'd detected the faint quaver in his voice as he became conscious of their hands again. She released him, letting her fingers fall away without a thought, then lowered herself onto the edge of the blankets and busied herself with uncoiling the peasant's braid she wore. He kicked off his boots and stretched out on his own side, trying not to appear as if he was watching her.

For lack of a hairbrush, she combed out her hair with her fingers. The process turned her luxuriant brown curls into a wild, frizzy mane. He should have found it funny, but it was oddly appealing. He couldn't resist a smile, and she looked up sharply as it twitched across his mouth.

"What?" she asked, a faint pink tinge moving into her cheeks.

"Nothing," he said, shifting onto his side. He propped his head on his right elbow, but kept his left hand—the one she'd touched, where he could again feel the warmth and softness of her skin—close to his side, trying to minimize contact between it and anything else.

The glowlamp winked out, and he listened to her move about for a few minutes, until she had settled beside him. After a few minutes of silence, she tugged on the covers, pulling them higher over her shoulder but leaving him half uncovered. He closed his eyes and uttered a gentle, soundless sigh. The only way he could take more for himself would be to move closer or rudely tug them back. He wasn't going to sleep with his back against hers, and he certainly wasn't going to yank the blanket off of her so impolitely. Her breathing had already become steady and even, and it was deepening as she fell into dreams. She must have been utterly exhausted after the flight from Naboo and then all the walking they had done today. No, he wasn't going to wake her or do anything that might even potentially disturb her slumber.

Quietly, he lifted his right hand, flexing and unflexing it as he brought it up to his face. He studied the silhouette intently, trying to determine what exactly was wrong with him. The shape of the fingers, the contours of his palm, were the same as they had ever been. So why did he keep imagining that he could feel her hand in his? He shivered even as he asked himself the question, and it wasn't with the cold. He let his hand fall again and closed his eyes, but then he could feel the unending tug of the unnamable force that seemed to be drawing him and Padme together, pulling them toward one another even in dreams…