Archive of Our Own

Padmé Naberrie has reached the dangerous kind of tired.

Not the kind that makes you yawn or blink too long at red lights—no, the kind where you start seriously wondering if a person can overdose on espresso and righteous indignation in equal measure.

She pushes through the glass door of The Twin Suns Diner, half-drenched from the stubborn drizzle outside, and is immediately hit with something she hasn’t felt all day: peace.

Warm lightning. The smell of butter and coffee. Slightly scratched linoleum floors. A jukebox in the corner humming a Sam Cooke song that makes her unclench her jaw by about 10%.

Only four other people sit inside—and older man grumbling at a crossword puzzle, a teenage couple sharing a milkshake and eye contact so intense it probably violates decency laws, and a woman behind the counter, wiping it down with a practiced rhythm and gently air.

The woman looks up, smiles like she’s been waiting for Padmé all evening.

"Well hello, honey," she says, voice as smooth as the jazz coming through the jukebox. "You look like you’ve been through it."

Padmé gives a tired smile. "That obvious?"

The woman gestures to the counter stools or the booth by the window. "Only to someone who’s been there. I’m Shmi. You sit wherever you want. Kitchen’s still hot."

Padmé takes the booth—closer to the window, where she can at least pretend she might open her laptop but also pretend she might not. She drops her bag beside her, coat still on.

"I’m not sure I should be trusted with a menu right now," Padmé admits. "I’m running entirely on spite and black coffee."

"Oh, we’ve got both,” Shmi says with a twinkle, already pouring from the pot she’s holding. "You want sweet or savory to go with that?”

"Whatever’s fast and requires no decision-making.”

"Short stack it is,” Shmi nods. "You look like a pancakes-for-dinner kind of night.”

Padmé blinks. "How did you—?”

"Exhaustion has a look. Seen it plenty. I’ve run this place twenty years, since before the booths stopped squeaking. I can tell a burnout when she walks in.”

Padmé doesn’t bristle. Somehow, she just lets herself sink deeper into the red vinyl. She sips the coffee—hot, strong, and, tragically, better than the press room swill back at the Capitol.

Without asking, Shmi slides into the seat across from her. Normally, Padmé would be annoyed. She’s not.

"So, what’s your poison? Nurse? Lawyer? Professor?”

"Senator,” Padmé says without thinking, then grimaces. "State, not federal. District Fourteen.”

Shmi whistles. "Well, damn. You’re working harder than most.”

"I think that’s the problem.”

She means it as a joke, but it lands heavier than intended.

Shmi nods like she gets it. Like she’s met that kind of tired before and had coffee waiting for it. "Well, you’re safe here, Senator. No one talks politics after seven. And refills are on the house.”

The bell over the door groans, dragged open by someone who clearly doesn’t believe in slowing down for anything.
A blur of dark curls, a streak of black hoodie and worn denim, the slap of boots on tile—

Padmé turns just in time to see a man in his mid-to-late twenties barrel in like a human weather system, jacket flaring out behind him as if the wind hasn’t quite caught up.

"Don’t say it,” the man says, voice all gravel and mischief.

Shmi doesn’t even blink. "You’re twenty-seven minutes late.”

"I got caught behind a tractor parade. Not a joke.”

"Did the tractor parade make you stop for a coffee?”

The human hurricane finally halts in the doorway to the kitchen, iced coffee in hand and a crooked smile tugging at his mouth. He’s late, disheveled, and clearly unbothered by either fact.

Shmi sighs like she’s been dealing with this for a very long time, heading toward the kitchen window to grab Padmé’s pancakes. "Apron. Now."

"Yes, boss," he calls, breezing behind the counter and bumping the swinging kitchen door open with his hip. He disappears for a second, then pops back out and notices Padmé—actually notices her—for the first time.

He slows. She looks up form her coffee just in time to meet his gaze, and gods help her, the man has the kind of eyes that belong in a warning label. Blue. Clear. Trouble.

"Hey," he says, a grin already forming like it’s a reflex. "New face."

Padmé does not rise to the bait. "Not that new. I’ve been sitting here long enough to watch you commit time theft in real time.”

Shmi snorts.

Anakin lifts a hand to his heart. "Wounded. Deeply. She’s quick.”

Padmé hates how quickly the corners of her mouth almost move upward. She stops it just in time.

Shmi swats him with a dish towel on her way back to her.

"That’s my son,” she says to Padmé, with a sigh that somehow holds both affection and fatigue in equal measure. "Anakin. Works the night shift. Almost every night. Like some kind of feral raccoon that figured out how to make a decent milkshake.”

Anakin’s halfway through tying his apron. "Wow, Ma. Tell her how you really feel.”

Padmé glances at him again. "They don’t let you out during the day, huh?” she says, sipping her coffee like it’s a casual observation.

"Only under supervision,” he shoots back without missing a beat. "I’m told I’m a danger to productivity before noon.”

Padmé raises an eyebrow. "Sounds about right.”

Shmi mutters something under her breath about testosterone poisoning and sets a plate of pancakes in front of Padmé with practiced grace.

"Eat while it’s hot, Senator,” she says, with just enough emphasis that Anakin perks up like a dog hearing a new word.

"Senator?” he repeats, suddenly squinting at Padmé like he’s trying to put puzzle pieces together. "Wait. You’re the Senator from Fourteen?”

Padmé braces. "If you say anything about zoning reform I will launch myself out that window.”

He lifts his hands in surrender. "I wouldn’t dare.”

Padmé narrows her eyes. "Are you mocking me?"

"Oh, absolutely,” Anakin says, sliding behind the counter with the ease of someone who’s been dodging health code violations since he could walk. "Mockery is my love language.”

"Then we are not compatible,” she says, cutting a piece of pancake.

"We’ll see about that,” he calls back.

Damn it.

She came here for pancakes.

The Twin Suns Diner, 09:28 p.m., Wednesday Night

Her office smelled like burnt coffee and tension all day, and someone had the audacity to accuse her of being "emotionally reactive” during a subcommittee meeting on transit reform.

So. She needs pancakes. And silence. And coffee. And, though she won’t admit it out loud, maybe just a little sarcasm in a black hoodie.

The diner’s bell rings as she walks in, and this time it’s different.

No jukebox playing. No Shmi behind the counter. No warm motherly smile waiting to greet her.

Just him.

Anakin stands behind the counter, elbows leaning on the worn Formica, sleeves pushed up, hoodie traded for a henley that looks aggressively soft. He’s flipping through a spiral notebook and chewing the end of a pen when he looks up and grins.

"Well look who survived another day of bureaucracy.”

Padmé raises an eyebrow. "Barely.”

"Rough shift at the justice factory?”

She slides into the same booth as last night. "You have no idea.”

Anakin sets the pen down and moves to grab the coffee pot, already pouring by the time he reaches her table.

She narrows her eyes. "You remember my order?”

"I remember people who insult my timekeeping,” he says, setting the pot down with mock offense. "It’s a matter of pride.”

"Touché.”

He slides onto one of the stools at the counter, facing her sideways, spinning it lazily with one foot. "You’re in luck, Senator. Wednesdays are dead. I could put on a puppet show and no one would notice.”

"No Shmi?” she asks, eyeing the empty counter behind him.

"Nah. Mom usually heads out around nine. Old lady has to be in bed by ten or the whole world falls apart.” He says it with affection, tapping the counter twice with the flat of his palm. "She’s earned it. She’s been running this place since before I knew how to spell 'menu.’”

"You grew up here?” Padmé asks, genuinely curious.

"Basically in the back kitchen,” he says with a shrug. "Used to help crack eggs and sneak whipped cream. Fell asleep in booth five more times than I can count. Learned how to make coffee before I learned how to drive. This place is half my personality.”

Padmé smiles into her mug. "That explains a lot.”

"Like my flawless customer service skills?”

"Like your strange, possibly genetic, commitment to pancakes.”

Anakin laughs, pushes off the counter, and walks back toward the griddle. "Tell you what. Since it’s quiet, I’ll even make yours tonight.”

"Should I be worried?”

"Absolutely.”

The Twin Suns Diner, 09:12 p.m., Thursday Night

Padmé is starting to think this might be a problem.

But she had a dinner she couldn’t skip, a fundraiser full of handshakes and champagne flutes and a speech she gave in heels. It ran late. She told herself she’d just go home after.

Instead, her car practically steers itself into the lot behind The Twin Suns Diner.

The place looks even sleepier than usual. One car out front—hers now makes two. The lights inside are low, and for a half-second, she wonders if she’s missed it. If maybe Shmi closed early. If maybe she pushed her luck.

But the neon sign in the window still glows soft yellow: OPEN.

She pushes the door open.

The bell rings, sharp in the quiet.

And Anakin jolts up from behind the counter, almost knocking over the napkin holder in the process. His curls are flattened on one side, and there’s a faint red imprint of the counter on his cheek. He blinks, squints, and then groans.

Padmé raises an eyebrow as she walks in. "Is this your standard level of professionalism?”

He rubs his face with both hands. "I got up early, okay?”

"What, like noon?”

"Noon is early,” he insists, stretching his arms behind his head like a cat. "If you work 'til 4 a.m. and mop floors after the sun comes up, then yeah—noon’s practically sunrise.”

Padmé shrugs out of her coat and slides into her usual booth. "You should put that on a bumper sticker.”

He’s still waking up, but he smiles at her, softer now. Less biting, less reflexive. The kind of smile that isn’t armor. The kind that sneaks up on you.

"I almost thought you wouldn’t come,” he says, like he’s been trying not to think it for hours.

Padmé glances at him over the rim of her mug as he pours her coffee without being asked.

"Why? Miss me already?”

He doesn’t take the bait like usual. Just leans on the counter, watching her with that lazy, too-honest expression that makes her want to fidget.

"A little,” he says.

She reaches for the menu and starts reading over the breakfast section just to have something that she can pretend is more interesting than the thrum building behind her ribs.

"Well,” she says carefully. "Lucky for you, I’m a creature of habit.”

He hums, eyes still on her. "I’m starting to notice.”

The Twin Suns Diner, 09:45 p.m., Friday Night

The next night, Anakin sits.

Right across from her. No hesitation. No preamble. Just drops into the booth like he belongs there—legs stretched out too far, arms draped along the backrest, like he’s reclaiming land that was always his. He takes up all the space in the booth somehow. Not like when Shmi sat there, all polite presence and motherly affection. No, Anakin plants himself with the energy of a man who has no intention of staying in his lane.

Padmé doesn’t even get the chance to say hello.

"Okay, serious question,” he says before she can so much as open her laptop. "Would you rather fight one horse-sized goose or fifty goose-sized horses?”

Padmé blinks. "I haven’t even taken my coat off.”

"Answer determines whether I bring you syrup or hot sauce.”

She stares at him. "That’s not how ethics work.”

"That’s not how breakfast works either, but we’re both here at 9 p.m. pretending this is fine.”

She opens her mouth. Closes it again.

God help her, she considers the question.

"…The goose. One goose. Final answer.”

Anakin snaps his fingers. "See? That’s exactly what I said. You take it down fast, you assert dominance, you go home. Fifty tiny horses? That’s too many knees to kick.”

Padmé exhales a laugh she doesn’t mean to let out, peeling her scarf off and tossing it into the booth beside her. "Why are we talking about this?”

"Because you walked in here looking like someone canceled universal healthcare again, and I figured we should ease in.”

She narrows her eyes, but the corner of her mouth betrays her.

Anakin sips his drink. "Plus, Earl said he’d take the horses and I’ve lost a disturbing amount of respect for him.”

Padmé rolls her eyes.

He doesn’t even have a notepad or a tray. No pretense of work.

"Are you supposed to be… doing something?” she asks, gesturing vaguely toward the rest of the diner, which is currently occupied by three high schoolers in matching band hoodies and an elderly woman knitting something aggressively pink.

"I am doing something,” Anakin replies, grinning. "I’m making sure you don’t work yourself into a second caffeine-induced stroke.”

She tries not to smile. She tries very hard.

Anakin leans forward, just a little. Elbows on the table, hands around his drink. His voice drops slightly, not serious, not heavy—but there’s something gentler in it.

"You come here to rest, or to hide?”

Padmé meets his eyes. There’s too much in that look—sincerity hidden under sarcasm, like a well-worn coat.

She doesn’t answer.

Instead, she picks up her fork and says, "You owe me syrup. For the goose.”

Anakin grins like he’s won something, even if he’s not sure what. "Right away, Senator.”

And then he’s gone, sliding out of the booth like he’s always meant to return, like this is the kind of place where things start small and quietly dangerous.

Padmé sips her coffee and watches him go.

The Twin Suns Diner, 09:06 p.m., Saturday Night

The next night, the diner is busy.

Not chaotic, not full-blown Saturday-night-diner disaster, but definitely alive in a way it hasn’t been all week. Tables packed with college kids in mismatched hoodies, high schoolers in glittery eye makeup and awkward confidence.

Every booth is taken except one—hers. Somehow still open, like the universe knows she needs it.

Padmé slides in, clutching her coat a little tighter, already bracing herself for a long wait and lukewarm coffee. It’s fine. She’ll survive. Probably.

The girl working the floor tonight has electric blue hair, a bun held up by a pencil,

and the kind of energy Padmé recognizes as barely controlled spiral. She’s balancing three plates and a checkbook and still managing to smile as she stops at the table next to hers.

By the time the girl gets to Padmé, there’s a faint shimmer of sweat on her brow and a polite but tight look in her eyes.

"Hey there, welcome to Twin Suns,” she says, breathless. "Sorry for the wait, it’s a little—uh—Hunger Games out here tonight. What can I get you? Just coffee? Food? An escape plan?”

Padmé huffs a laugh. "Coffee to start."

The girl scribbles on her notepad. "Coming right up. And if you want pancakes, I can probably get them to you before midnight. Probably.”

Padmé hesitates. Looks toward the counter. Then toward the kitchen window.

"Is Anakin around?” she asks, trying to make it sound casual. Just curious. Normal. Which is definitely what she is.

The girl’s eyes flick up, then roll—hard.

"In the kitchen,” she says flatly. "Actually doing his job for once. Miracles do happen.”

Padmé blinks at her.

The girl raises her eyebrows, then clarifies, with all the weary weight of family obligation: "I’m his cousin. I’m allowed to say that.”

"Ah,” Padmé says, biting back a smile. "So that’s genetic, then.”

"What is?”

"The dramatics.”

The cousin snorts, scribbles something on her pad, and shoots a look toward the kitchen doors like she’s about to throw her apron at them.

"Only on his side. I’m the emotionally stable one.”

"I see. That’s why your hands are shaking and you’ve said 'sorry’ to the same table three times.”

The girl opens her mouth, closes it again. Then she grins.

"I like you. You want the usual?”

Padmé blinks. "I have a usual?”

"Yeah. Tired eyes, coat still on, smells faintly of government. You’re the senator. Pancakes and a lot of coffee.”

"…Sure. Let’s call it the usual.”

The girl nods, already moving. "If he asks, I was very polite.”

Padmé watches her weave through the chaos, a thread of blue hair and exasperation, disappearing behind the kitchen doors with a dramatic swing.

She waits.

Ten seconds.

Fifteen.

Then, through the tiny rectangular window, she catches a glimpse: a flash of curls, a black apron, a pair of very expressive hands gesturing like someone just accused him of war crimes via breakfast order.

Padmé smiles to herself.

Later that night, Anakin emerges from the kitchen like he’s just won a war no one else saw.

His apron is smudged with something suspiciously syrup-colored, there’s a smear of flour across one cheekbone, and he’s rolling up his sleeves as he walks like he means it—like he’s still burning off momentum. His cousin yells something at his back that sounds vaguely threatening, but he waves her off with a lazy two-finger salute and heads straight for Padmé’s booth.

He doesn’t ask.

He just slides in. On her side.

His shoulder knocks into hers as he settles, entirely unbothered, like sharing a side of the booth is perfectly natural. Like this is the booth arrangement they’ve always had. His elbow brushes hers, warm and solid, and then—because of course he does—he throws one arm across the back of the seat behind her, just barely skimming her shoulders.

Padmé gives him a look. The kind that would freeze a lesser man where he sat.

Anakin just grins. "Miss me?”

"I didn’t notice you were gone.”

"Ouch,” he says, dramatic and immediate. "That’s cold, Senator. Even for a government official.”

Padmé returns to her coffee, deliberately ignoring the proximity of his leg pressed along hers, the casual way his fingers are almost in her hair. Almost.

"You’ve got flour on your face,” she says coolly.

"I know,” he says, entirely unashamed. "Adds to my rugged, working-class charm.”

"Rugged,” she echoes, unimpressed.

"Dangerous. Mysterious. Vaguely edible.”

She snorts—actually snorts—and then covers it with her coffee like she didn’t.

"I’m pretty sure your cousin wants to kill you.”

"She always wants to kill me.”

"She said you were actually working tonight.”

"That’s what I get for doing my job—slander.”

Padmé shakes her head, but her shoulder shifts, leans just slightly into his, almost like her body’s given up pretending she doesn’t enjoy this. The warmth. The quiet buzz of the diner finally winding down. The comfort of something uncomplicated.

"Long day?” Anakin asks, voice softer now. Less teasing, more… curious.

She doesn’t answer right away. Just watches the steam rise from her cup.

Then: "They pulled funding from the housing bill I wrote. Said the numbers were too ambitious.”

Anakin’s quiet for a beat. Then he hums, low and thoughtful. "You mean too ambitious for the people who already own four houses and none of the consequences.”

She looks over at him. He’s still sprawled, still too close. But his gaze is steady. Grounded.

He gets it.

"I didn’t come here to talk about politics,” she says, but not sharply. Not this time.

"I didn’t ask to,” he replies. "I just asked about your day.”

Padmé doesn’t say anything for a long moment. She just… lets herself exist. Beside him. Shoulder to shoulder. His arm still behind her, fingers tapping absently against the booth like he’s playing chords only he can hear.

And for once, she doesn’t feel like she has to be anything other than a tired woman in a warm booth.

The Twin Suns Diner, 08:58 p.m., Sunday Night

Sunday night, Anakin is off.

And fine. She knew that was possible. It’s not like she expects him to be there every time she walks in. That would be ridiculous. Entitled. Delusional.

Still.

The guy behind the counter is a wall of a man with a buzzcut and a voice like gravel who takes her order with zero small talk and exactly the energy of someone who just got out of a failed marriage and a parking ticket on the same day.

Then she gets to her booth and there’s a neon sticky note where her cup of coffee usually sits.

"Off tonight, see you tomorrow? :)"

Her heart makes a very stupid fluttering motion that she immediately tells it to stop.

The Twin Suns Diner, 09:30 p.m., Monday Night

Monday night, he’s back when she walks in.

Anakin’s leaning against the counter, half out of uniform—just his black T-shirt and jeans, apron crumpled on the stool beside him. He’s talking to Ahsoka, who looks like she’s trying to convince him not to be annoying, and failing. The moment he sees Padmé, he perks up like someone flipped a switch in him.

"You again,” he says, as she crosses the diner. "Starting to think you’re into me.”

Padmé deadpans, "I’m here for the pancakes.”

That earns a crooked grin. "Right. Of course. The pancakes.”

She slides into her usual booth, pulls off her coat, and reaches for the menu she’s already memorized when Anakin grabs it from her hands.

"Nope,” he says. "I’ve gotta ask. Aren’t you tired of pancakes yet?”

She opens her mouth to deny it, but then… stops. Sighs. "Okay. Fine. A little."

His eyebrows raise. "But?"

"Not tired of the company."

He freezes—not dramatically, just for a beat—and then tilts his head, looking at her like she just said something in a language he wasn’t expecting her to speak.

A slow smile curls at his lips. Not the usual smirk. This one’s quieter. Realer.

"Get your coat,” he says.

Padmé blinks. "What?”

"Because I’m off in ten. And Rex—” (apparently the brick wall) "—owes me for covering his shift last Wednesday. And Ahsoka—" (apparently the cousin) "— can handle anything short of an alien invasion.”

She hesitates only a second. Not because she’s unsure—just because it’s startling how not unsure she is.

Then she’s grabbing her coat, slinging it over her arm, following him out the door like she does this all the time. Like this is just another night, and he’s not a man she barely knows who feels like someone she’s known forever.

He drives an ancient muscle car that growls like a living creature when it starts. The passenger seat has a jacket crumpled in the footwell.

"You don’t ask many questions, do you?” he says as he pulls out of the lot.

"I spend all day asking questions. I’m taking the night off.”

He doesn’t push. Just drives them out toward the edge of town, to a burger place that glows like a spaceship in the dark. Neon lights flickering. The kind of place that smells like fried everything.

They don’t even go inside. They sit in his car with the windows cracked, eating burgers wrapped in paper and fries that are too salty and perfect. He plays music low—Fleetwood Mac, of all things—and she props her feet up on his dash like she owns the place.

Halfway through her burger, she says, "This is disgusting.”

"You’re welcome.”

She chews. Then says, "I love it.”

The Twin Suns Diner, 08:23 p.m., Tuesday Night

Tuesday night, the rain finally stops, but the air outside still smells like wet pavement and thawing ambition.

Inside the diner, it’s warm and soft and familiar. The bell above the door jingles as Padmé steps in, her boots leaving damp prints across the tile. She doesn’t even pretend to glance at a menu anymore.

Anakin is already behind the counter, flipping a pen between his fingers and arguing with Ahsoka about the proper ratio of whipped cream to pie.

His curls seem a little messier than usual, sleeves pushed up, mouth working overtime to win whatever nonsense debate he started.

He spots Padmé and lights up like it’s a reflex.

"You’re late,” he calls across the diner.

"I was trying to remember why I keep showing up somewhere that serves twelve types of pie and not a single green vegetable.”

Anakin grins. "Because of my excellent coffee service and devastating good looks.”

"You charge me for both.”

"Capitalism.”

Padmé rolls her eyes and makes a beeline for their booth.

Anakin’s already there before she can sit, two coffees in hand. He slides in next to her this time, like it’s routine, like it’s normal. Like it’s been years instead of days.

He passes her a mug, nudges her elbow with his, and opens with, "Tell me you didn’t spend the whole day yelling at city council again.”

"Of course I did,” she says dryly. "How else would I earn the privilege of listening to you ramble about cinnamon-to-sugar ratios?”

"I’m expanding your palate. You’re welcome.”

Across the diner, Shmi emerges from the kitchen window carrying a tray, watching them with that quiet, knowing look only mothers seem to master. She doesn’t interrupt, just listens—for exactly two minutes—as they bicker over how long coffee should steep and whether Anakin actually knows the difference between a macchiato and a latte.

Padmé says he doesn’t.

Anakin insists he does and that his version is just "freelance barista-ing.”

Their elbows bump. He steals a sip from her mug. She glares and lets him. He tells her she looks "dangerously accomplished tonight.” She tells him he smells like fryer oil and poor judgment.

Then Shmi walks over, sets down a slice of lemon pie like she’s officiating something, and clears her throat.

They both glance up.

She smiles sweetly.

"Well,” she says. "It took exactly one week for you two to fall completely in love with each other.”

Padmé sputters.

Anakin chokes on his coffee.

"I’m not—” Padmé starts.

"She’s not—” Anakin says at the same time.

Shmi holds up a hand, completely unfazed. "I wasn’t asking. I was informing.”

And then she’s gone, back to the kitchen, leaving behind only the faint sound of her laugh.

Anakin stares at the empty space where she stood. "She’s so nosy.”

Padmé exhales slowly. "She’s not wrong, though.”

Anakin turns to her, eyes wide. "Wait, what?”

Padmé sips her coffee, calm as a lake. "I said she’s not wrong. Don’t make me say it again.”

He breaks into a slow, incredulous grin.

"Dangerously accomplished and sentimental,” he says, leaning in. "I might need a moment.”

Padmé rolls her eyes. "Take two.”