Padmé hadn't expected to be alone.
She stood in the center of her apartment, smoothing invisible wrinkles from her silk skirt, glancing for the third time at the dinner table. Everything was in place—the low candlelight, the wine breathing in crystal glasses, the soft music playing in the background. Clovis had been meticulous in the planning.
But then the emergency Senate session had pulled him away, and she was left to host the guest he insisted she meet.
Anakin Skywalker.
Padmé barely remembered him—just the name of a boy Clovis had mentioned once or twice, a distant cousin, a war orphan who'd grown up halfway across the galaxy. Not someone she'd thought she'd ever meet, let alone… consider in this way.
A sharp chime echoed through the apartment. She inhaled deeply, steeled herself, and went to answer the door.
When it opened, she nearly forgot to breathe.
He was tall. Broad-shouldered, all in black, with a jaw so sharply cut it could wound. But it was his eyes that stopped her—startlingly blue, vibrant and intense beneath a sweep of dark lashes. When they met hers, he gave a polite, almost boyish smile.
"Senator Amidala?" he asked, voice smooth, low, and surprisingly gentle.
"Padmé," she corrected, stepping aside. "Come in."
He nodded, brushing past her with a soft thank you, his scent trailing behind—something earthy, clean, and darkly spicy. He moved with quiet grace, every step controlled, but with the raw tension of a man used to holding back.
She poured him a drink. Their hands brushed when he took the glass.
They spoke easily for a while—small talk, light humor. He was well-read, thoughtful. And shy. Not at all what she expected from someone invited into their marriage bed.
It was Padmé who finally broke the polite façade. "I should tell you… Rush had to leave unexpectedly. He may not be back until morning."
Anakin blinked, then gave a slow nod. "Then I suppose it's just us tonight."
She lifted her glass to her lips but didn't drink. "Should we talk about it?"
He smiled slightly. "I think if there's an elephant in the room, it's best to name it."
Padmé set her glass down and leaned forward slightly. "All right, then. Why did you agree to this?"
His eyes flickered with something unreadable. "Rush said you were uncertain. That your comfort came first."
She raised a brow. "You didn't answer the question."
"No," he admitted. "I didn't."
His hand shifted on the arm of the chair, fingers clenching for a moment before he spoke again. "I agreed because I was curious. About you. About what it would feel like to be close to someone like you." He hesitated. "And yes… because I want to please you. I want to make you feel things you may have forgotten were possible."
She blinked, startled by his honesty. "And what's in it for you?"
That's when the change came. His posture stayed still, but his gaze darkened. Heated. Smoldering.
"What's in it for me?" he echoed, voice low now, velvet-wrapped danger. He stood slowly and stepped toward her, unhurried. "I get to taste you until you come against my tongue."
Padmé inhaled sharply, every muscle in her body locking into stunned stillness.
"I get to hear you moan my name," he continued, now standing over her, eyes locked to hers, "while your husband listens and realizes exactly what you've been missing."
Her lips parted, but no sound came.
Anakin's fingers reached out, but stopped just shy of her cheek. "I get to touch every inch of your skin," he whispered, "memorize it with my hands, my mouth. If—" he paused, gaze softening just enough to make her heart trip "—that's something you want."
Padmé couldn't speak.
Not yet.
She could only stare up at him, breath caught between two worlds, unsure which way she'd fall.