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The ‘fresher door opens. Steam billows—smelling of citrus, juniper.
Anakin has never felt more vindicated in his life.
“Temple-standard soap, huh?” he drawls.
The Force pinches in the room between them; colors exasperated, resigned acceptance. Anakin doesn’t need to turn from the Negotiator’s ceiling to know Obi-Wan’s tossing him a withering look.
“Not a word.”
“Such possessions, Master–”
“Anakin.”
“Fine, fine.” Flesh and durasteel hands raise in mock-surrender. He ogles as Obi-Wan passes, admiring pale skin. “Your soap collection’s probably the least of the Council’s worries, anyway.”
Obi-Wan snorts, conceding. Maroon robes land unceremoniously atop Anakin’s face.
“Get dressed.”