The café was charming in its simplicity—dim lights hanging from the ceiling like lazy fireflies, polished wood tables nestled beside wide windows that overlooked the streaming lights of Coruscant's speeders. Padmé Amidala sat with her hands folded in her lap, her silk dress catching the low light. Across from her, Anakin Skywalker stirred his tea without drinking it.
He was undeniably handsome. Sharp cheekbones and dark lashes, a mess of dark blond curls that softened the seriousness of his features. But his shoulders were tense beneath his coat, and he hadn't looked her in the eyes for more than a few seconds since they'd sat down.
"So…" she said, gently probing, "have you always lived in Coruscant?"
Anakin hesitated, then nodded. "Mm. Mostly." His voice was soft—so quiet it barely rose above the hum of conversation around them.
"Do you like it?" she asked with a warm smile.
He nodded again, then added after a pause, "The gardens are nice. I like quiet places."
She tried another angle. "That makes sense. I go to the memorial gardens when I need to think. They're peaceful. Do you—"
"I've been there," he interrupted, quickly. Then, more softly, "They helped."
She smiled, but when the silence stretched again, she realized he wasn't going to say more. She lifted her teacup, buying time, trying to hide the sinking feeling in her stomach. He seemed kind. Gentle. There was nothing off-putting about him. But the conversation felt like dragging a boat upstream.
She tried. Maker, she tried. For the better part of an hour, she offered up topics, little anecdotes, even a joke or two. He smiled sometimes, murmured a few responses, but never asked her much in return. He glanced toward the window more than he did at her. His fingers twitched nervously, occasionally brushing the hem of his coat, like he wanted to disappear into it.
And as much as she hated to admit it, she felt tired. Not disinterested, but… weary. Like they were speaking two different languages and neither could find the right translation.
When the bill came, she reached for it, but he stopped her with a shake of his head and a barely audible, "I've got it."
Outside the café, the Coruscant night stretched around them, cool and fragrant with city air. Anakin walked her to the curb.
Padmé stopped and turned to him. Her heart ached with the guilt of what she was about to say, but she was never one to lie—not even to spare feelings.
"Anakin," she said gently, "thank you for tonight. It was really nice to meet you. But… I don't think we mesh very well. I hope that's okay."
He blinked once, then nodded quickly, his expression unreadable. "I understand," he said, voice still soft. "Thank you for saying so. Have a good night, Senator."
She smiled, grateful and sad all at once. "You too."
And then he walked away, disappearing into the shadows of the street.
⸻
Three days later, Padmé sat curled on the lounge in her apartment, scrolling through Senate reports on her datapad while Dormé plopped down beside her with two steaming mugs of caf.
"Alright," Dormé said with a grin. "You've avoided the topic long enough. How was the date?"
Padmé laughed, setting the datapad aside. "It was fine. He was nice. Polite. But… very quiet."
"Quiet how?" Dormé raised a brow, passing her a mug.
"Like, shy-shy. Barely spoke. I tried to be friendly, asked him questions, but he didn't really open up. So I told him, as kindly as I could, that I didn't see it going anywhere."
"Oof," Dormé winced. "That must've hurt him."
"I know," Padmé murmured. "But I didn't want to pretend. He wasn't engaging. Just… distant."
From across the room, Sabé glanced up from where she was flipping through a datapad. "Wait—Skywalker, right? Anakin?"
Padmé nodded. "Yes, why?"
Sabé sat up straighter, her brow furrowing. "Did no one tell you he just finished chemo? He was in treatment for over a year. I heard he only started going out in public again a month or two ago."
Padmé froze. "…What?"
"Obi-Wan mentioned it," Sabé said gently. "They volunteered at the same clinic. Anakin was in really bad shape last year. He was mostly on his own. The fact that he even went on that date is kind of… incredible."
Padmé's heart sank.
She felt her stomach twist, the caf forgotten in her hands.
"I didn't know," she said, barely a whisper.
Dormé's eyes widened. "Oh no…"
"I thought he was just… nervous. Or disinterested." Padmé set the mug down with shaking hands. "I didn't know he was recovering. I thought he was—"
She cut herself off, guilt crashing over her like a wave.
"I should've asked," she said, voice thick. "I didn't even think to ask about him. I was so focused on trying to fill the silence I didn't stop to wonder why he was so quiet."
"You didn't do anything wrong," Sabé said gently. "You were honest."
"But I dismissed him," Padmé said. "I smiled and walked away thinking he just wasn't interested in me, and all this time…"
Dormé reached over and squeezed her arm. "Do you have his number? A way to reach him?"
Padmé shook her head. "No. I didn't even think I'd need to. The whole thing was arranged by a friend offworld, and she won't be back for another few weeks."
Sabé and Dormé exchanged a look but said nothing.
Padmé stared down at her hands, the weight of regret heavy in her chest. She didn't know what she would even say if she could contact him. But the ache of it lingered.
She hadn't known.
And now… she couldn't forget.