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“I don’t whip it out for just anyone these days, you know,” he says, trying to sound peevish but, he suspects, failing utterly, for the sight of Susan grinning up at him from his bed is far too pleasant for that.
“I assure you, yours will be far from the first man’s sword I’ve seen,” she says, wicked mouth curved, “so you needn’t be shy on my account.”
He hesitates a moment longer before hitting the switch, the familiar hum overtaking him, an extension of his arm, his will; in the glow of his lightsaber, her face lights like sunlight through leaves in warm, living green, her gaze softer now and dreamy; when she speaks, it’s from a universe away, and chills him to the core: “You look like a knight, somehow,” she breathes, in the voice of a queen.