He moved like a predator, unhurried and aware of every step. People shifted as he passed, sensing the gravity of him without understanding it. Power wrapped around him like a cloak. Not just physical—though Force, that was undeniable—but something deeper. A presence.
Padmé couldn't look away. Her hands curled tight around her warm mug, the ceramic grounding her, keeping her in her seat when every instinct screamed to stand, to meet him. To run—or toward him, she couldn't tell.
He stopped two feet from her table. Up close, the word handsome felt like an insult. He was devastating. Rough around the edges, but beautiful in a way that was almost painful to behold. A scar curved along his jaw, disappearing beneath his collar. She wanted to trace it with her mouth.
"Is this seat taken?" he asked, voice like smoke and velvet. Smooth but dangerous.
Padmé blinked. "It is now," she said before she could stop herself.
Sabé kicked her lightly under the table, hiding a grin behind her cup. Padmé didn't even react. Her eyes were locked on his.
He sat, and even the way he did that felt intimate. Casual, but never careless. His hands were large, calloused—resting on the table with a stillness that belied restraint. His mug of black caf steamed between them, ignored.
He looked at her like he already knew her. Like he had imagined her once in a dream and couldn't believe she was real.
"I'm Anakin," he said simply.
Of course you are, she thought. The name felt like thunder, like danger wrapped in silk. "Padmé," she replied, pulse rabbiting in her throat.
"I know," he said.
That startled her. "You… know me?"
He gave a faint, wry smile. "Most people do. Senator Amidala of Naboo."
Something about the way he said it made her skin tighten with awareness. Not reverence. Not flattery. Interest.
"I suppose you're right," she murmured. "And yet I don't know you."
He leaned forward slightly, resting his forearms on the table, eyes still on hers. "You will."
It wasn't a flirtation. It was a promise.
Sabé cleared her throat, clearly fighting a smirk. "Well, I just remembered I left… my coat. Somewhere." She rose with theatrical grace, not even pretending to be subtle. "Don't wait up."
She was gone in seconds, slipping away into the warm, humming air of the café's terrace.
Padmé arched a brow. "She's not even wearing a coat."
Anakin's lips curled at the corners. "She's a good friend."
"She's a nosy friend."
"That too."
Silence settled again—but it wasn't uncomfortable. It pulsed. Tense. Charged. His gaze hadn't wavered once. She wasn't used to that. Most men blinked or shifted or looked away, intimidated by her rank, her name, her presence. He only leaned in closer.
"What are you?" she asked suddenly, quietly. "Not a senator. Not a diplomat."
"No," he said. "I'm a… negotiator."
She gave him a skeptical look.
"A Jedi," he added, after a pause.
That drew a sharp inhale from her. "You're a Jedi?"
He nodded. "Not a very good one."
She blinked. "That's… not what you're supposed to say."
"I don't like pretending."
Her breath caught in her chest. She could feel it—the dark edge to him. He was dangerous. Maybe not in the way he claimed, but in how he made her feel. Like the rules didn't matter. Like she could shed her skin and be something else.
"How long are you on Coruscant?" she asked, trying for casual.
"Long enough," he said, lifting his mug to his lips and watching her over the rim.
She felt heat bloom low in her belly. That look. Stars.
She was in trouble.
And for the first time in over a year, she welcomed it.