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They were fourteen and giggling.
Bashful, grabbing at each other’s hands beneath bedsheets and through the elegant fabric of gowns as they dressed. It was playful, and painted their cheeks a rosy shade that even the Queen’s makeup couldn’t hide.
They were innocent, they were mischievous, sneaking out of their quarters to soak in the moonlight and listen to the roar of the waterfalls when time permitted. When Padmé’s hand lingered near Sabé’s, she would link their pinky fingers and hold, just for a moment, before they parted, prepared for the day, and became one in the same as Amidala.
They were nineteen and making eyes at each other over the finest wine at yet another political banquet where there was only one of Padmé when they needed two.
The maneuvering and mechanics of politics at times made Sabé livid, but the grounding nature of Padmé’s fingers pressing into her shoulders when she looked her in the eyes made it worth it. They were distinctly themselves, and yet forever connected. Sabé wouldn’t have it any other way.
She would steal every brief moment, every chance to run fingers through Padmé’s curls, caress her cheek, until she’d allow it no more.
They were twenty-four and Padmé rolled over, nuzzling her face into Sabé’s neck.
A soft groan escaped her lips when Sabé stretched, moving mere centimeters from where she’d been. Stay, she’d mumbled to her. Don’t go. Not yet. Sabé laughed and left a lingering kiss on her temple, whispering into her hair she had nowhere else to be. The silk of Padmé’s nightgown brushed Sabé’s bare leg as cold feet moved to tangle with her own. She ran her fingers down the length of Padmé’s arm, raising her hand to kiss across her knuckles.
Ten years she’d dreamt of this.