Three years had passed since Padmé Amidala slapped Anakin Skywalker across the face in the gardens of Theed.
Three years since he'd said what she wasn't ready to hear.
And now, he stood before her again, older, sharper, dressed in a sleek navy tunic with Alderaanian accents. No longer Bail Organa's quiet shadow—he was now a key advisor in planetary reform, celebrated for his clarity, his negotiation skills, his ability to cut through politics like a blade.
She hadn't expected him to join the trade regulation conference. The last she'd heard, he was on the far side of the galaxy working on disaster relief programs.
He hadn't expected her to still be married.
But there she was—Senator Amidala-Clovis, still wearing her ring, still speaking eloquently for planetary equity, still wrapped in a polished mask he'd once tried to peel away.
And he didn't say a word about the past.
He was polite, professional. Even friendly.
But not familiar.
Which is probably why, at the end of the conference, she found herself asking, "Coffee?"
He blinked once, then nodded. "Sure."
⸻
They went to a quiet caf nestled beneath the shadows of the Senate dome, a local favorite that politicians avoided because it was too casual, too human. They sat across from each other at a small corner table, two steaming cups between them, the city traffic whispering by through the window.
"Your work on the Axxila relief vote was impressive," she said, fingers wrapped around her cup.
He smiled faintly. "Thank you. Your speech about long-term sustainability funding had teeth. You used to be more careful."
"I used to have more to lose," she said before she could stop herself.
He raised an eyebrow but didn't comment.
Before either of them could speak again, a woman—tall, confident, and in something far too tight for this kind of place—walked by and hovered just long enough to make her presence known.
"Excuse me," she purred to Anakin, eyes not even acknowledging Padmé. "I don't usually do this, but you're… stunning. Can I give you my number?"
Anakin didn't hesitate.
"I'm with someone," he said calmly, but with a firm edge. "A very beautiful woman, right here. So, no. You can't."
The woman's confidence cracked. She looked at Padmé, blinked, then huffed and left with a forced toss of her hair.
Padmé stared at him. "You didn't have to do that."
"I know," Anakin said, sipping his coffee.
"You're single, aren't you?"
He glanced at her. "Yeah."
"So… it shouldn't bother you when someone hits on you."
He leaned forward, eyes locking with hers.
"It bothers me," he said, "because she assumed that my being here—with a woman who is already gorgeous—meant she could interrupt. That she was entitled to my time. My number. Like you weren't enough to make a man say no."
The words landed heavily between them.
Padmé looked down, her voice quieter. "You said beautiful before."
"I like to correct my mistakes," he said, mouth twitching in the faintest hint of a smile.
She tilted her head. "That sounds dangerously close to flirting."
He didn't break eye contact. "If I were flirting," he said, low and smooth, "trust me… you'd know."
Her breath caught, and she looked away quickly, cheeks burning.
A beat of silence.
He leaned back, as if giving her space. As if he knew she needed it.
Padmé took a long sip of her coffee, trying to steady herself. Trying not to wonder what would happen if she wasn't married. Trying not to imagine what it would feel like to be wanted the way he just described.
She didn't say anything else.
But neither of them left the table.
Not yet.