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The mug is hideous—bright orange with grinning tooka faces that wink when hot liquid fills it. Anakin presents it like a sacred relic, prosthetic fingers curling around the handle with theatrical reverence.
"For my most esteemed Master," he declares, bowing so low his forehead nearly taps the kitchen counter.
Obi-Wan exhales through his nose. "You bought this to torment me."
"Wrong. I bought it because it’s you." Anakin’s grin is all teeth.
They spend hours testing blends: bitter Corellian coffee that makes Obi-Wan’s nose wrinkle, floral Alderaanian tea that stains Anakin’s tongue blue, spiced cider so potent it heats Obi-Wan’s cheeks. Between sips, Anakin watches him—the way his throat moves, the steam curling into his beard—and thinks, Yes. This. Always.
When Obi-Wan laughs at some terrible joke, eyes crinkling, Anakin’s chest aches. He doesn’t say it aloud. He doesn’t have to. The tookas wink from the mug between Obi-Wan’s palms, and it feels like a promise.