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The bar was too dark, too loud, and too cool for Anakin Skywalker.
He’d been standing at the entrance for a full thirty seconds, scanning the crowd like he was looking for a needle in a haystack, except the needle was a man named Cael, and the haystack was a sea of people who all seemed to know exactly where they belonged.
Anakin did not belong here.
He tugged at the collar of his button-up—the one Padmé had made him buy, the one that felt like wearing a straightjacket—and checked his phone for the fifth time in two minutes.
Padmé (6:42 PM): He’s tall, dark hair, very artsy. You’ll know him when you see him. Just relax and be yourself!
Padmé (6:43 PM): And maybe don’t mention the podracing thing on the first date. Or the war thing. Or the “I once rebuilt a droid from spare parts” thing. Just… be normal.
Anakin had stared at that last message for a long time, unsure if he should be offended.
He’d shown up at 7:15, because Padmé said 7:30 and he didn’t want to be late, but now it was 7:45 and Cael was nowhere to be seen.
Anakin grabbed a corner table near the bar—close enough to watch the door, far enough that no one would notice he was watching the door like a lost puppy. He ordered a water because he didn’t know what else to do with his hands, and then he waited.
And waited.
And waited some more.
He checked his phone again. No texts. No “running late, so sorry!” No “here!” No anything.
His leg started bouncing under the table.
Maybe he’s just stuck in traffic, Anakin told himself. Maybe he’s parking. Maybe he walked in while I wasn’t looking and now he’s waiting for me and we’re both idiots.
He scanned the room again. Tall, dark hair, artsy. That described about half the men in this bar. Maybe more. Anakin didn’t know. He was bad at this. He was bad at all of this.
He let his gaze drift across the room, restless, looking for anything to focus on that wasn’t the door and the growing pit in his stomach.
And then he saw him.
Behind the bar.
Anakin’s breath caught, just slightly, just enough to be embarrassing.
The bartender was beautiful. There was no other word for it. Auburn hair, just long enough to be tousled, streaked with silver at the temples. A beard that looked like it belonged in a cologne ad. Forearms exposed by rolled-up sleeves, moving easily as he poured something amber into a glass. And his eyes—even from across the room, Anakin could see they were blue. The kind of blue that made you want to keep looking, just to see if they’d change in different light.
He was laughing at something a customer said, head tipped back just slightly, and the sound of it carried across the bar like warm honey.
Anakin’s stomach did something complicated. He forced himself to look away.
Don’t be an idiot, he thought. You’re here for a date. A date with someone else. Who might actually show up. Maybe.
He checked the door again. Still nothing.
His eyes drifted back to the bar. Accidentally. Completely accidentally.
The bartender was wiping down the counter now, and there was something about the way he carried himself and the way he moved so efficiently, so confident and unhurried, like nothing could ever rattle him.
Anakin wondered what it would take to rattle him.
He wondered what it would take to make those blue eyes look his way.
Stop it, he told himself firmly. He’s working. He’s not looking at you. He’s not going to look at you. Why would he?
But Anakin kept looking anyway. Kept sneaking glances between checks of the door. The bartender’s hands looked nice. Strong. Capable. Anakin had a thing for hands—he knew that about himself—and these were good hands. The kind of hands that knew what they were doing.
7:52.
The bartender was talking to another patron now, leaning in to hear something over the noise, and Anakin watched the way his brow furrowed with concentration, the way he nodded slowly, the way his lips curved into a reassuring smile.
God, Anakin thought. I’m pathetic.
7:58.
The door remained closed. The bartender remained across the room, oblivious to Anakin’s existence. And Anakin remained in his corner, nursing a glass of water he didn’t want, watching a man who would never notice him.
If I can’t even get a blind date to show up, he thought bitterly, what makes me think I’d have a chance with someone like that?
Someone like that—who was confident and composed and gorgeous and probably had a line of suitors that he had to fight off with a stick. Someone like that, who probably had no idea what it felt like to sit alone in a bar, watching the door, feeling your hope curdle into shame.
He’d let Padmé talk him into this because she’d looked at him with those big, earnest eyes and said “Ani, you can’t just work on ships forever. You have to live a little.”
And Anakin had said, “I live plenty,” and she’d said, “Name one person you’ve gone on a date with in the last year,” and he’d opened his mouth and closed it and then she’d already been on her phone, swiping through her contacts, muttering, “You’re hopeless, I’m fixing this.”
Now here he was. Hopeless, in a bar, the condensation from his pitiful water pooling around the glass, leaving a wet ring on the table. He traced it with his finger, drawing pointless patterns, trying not to think about the bartender’s smile.
8:03.
The knot in his chest tightened. It wasn’t just disappointment anymore—it was embarrassment, hot and prickly, creeping up the back of his neck. He could feel people glancing at him. Or maybe they weren’t. Maybe he was just paranoid. But it felt like they were looking, like they could tell he’d been stood up, like there was a neon sign above his head blinking LOSER in bright red letters.
He pulled out his phone again. No messages. No missed calls.
He typed out a text to Padmé.
Anakin (8:04): I think he’s not coming.
He hit send before he could overthink it. Then he stared at the screen, waiting for the three little dots that meant she was typing back.
They didn’t appear.
Of course they didn’t. She was probably at dinner with her own girlfriend, having a lovely time, not thinking about her disaster of a best friend who couldn’t even get a blind date to show up.
Anakin shoved his phone back in his pocket and let out a breath. Slow. Steady. Don’t make a scene. Don’t cry in a bar. That’s pathetic. That’s—
“Rough night?”
The voice came from directly beside him, warm and low, and Anakin nearly jumped out of his skin.
He looked up, and there he was.
The bartender.
Up close, he was even more devastating. The blue of his eyes was sharper, clearer, like an icy winter sky. There was a small, almost knowing smile playing at the corner of his lips. He was holding a tray with a glass of something amber—whiskey, maybe—and he set it down in front of Anakin fluidly.
“I didn’t order this,” Anakin said, his voice coming out rougher than intended.
“No,” the bartender agreed. “But you looked like you needed it.”
Anakin opened his mouth to argue—to say he was fine, he was waiting for someone, he didn’t need charity—but the words stuck in his throat. Because the bartender was looking at him with a gaze that made Anakin feel like he’d just been x-rayed.
“I’m Obi-Wan,” the man said, pulling out the chair across from Anakin and sitting down without asking permission. “And before you say you’re fine, I’ve been watching you for the last forty-five minutes, and you are very much not fine.”
Anakin blinked. “Anakin," he said flatly. "You’ve been watching me?”
“I’m a bartender. It’s my job.” Obi-Wan leaned back, crossing his arms in a way that made the sleeves pull just slightly across his biceps. “You’ve checked the door sixteen times. Your leg hasn’t stopped bouncing. And you’ve taken possibly one sip of that water since you arrived.”
Anakin glanced down at his glass, suddenly embarrassed. “I’m Anakin. I was waiting for someone,” he said, his voice dropping. He looked away from those piercing blue eyes, back toward the door. Still closed. Still empty. “A date. Blind date. My friend set it up.”
“Ah.” Obi-Wan’s tone softened. “And this date… they’re running late?”
Anakin let out a humorless laugh. “It’s eight-oh-five. We were supposed to meet at seven-thirty.” He finally picked up the whiskey Obi-Wan had set down, mostly to have something to do with his hands. “So either he’s really bad at time management, or…” He trailed off, the words sticking in his throat.
“Or?” Obi-Wan prompted gently.
Anakin shrugged, trying for casual and missing by a mile. “Or he showed up, took one look at me, and left.”
The silence that followed was heavy, but not uncomfortable. Anakin risked a glance up and found Obi-Wan studying him with an expression he couldn't quite read.
Then Obi-Wan did something unexpected.
He leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table, and let his gauge travel slowly—and deliberately—over Anakin's face. Down to his shoulders. Across the too-tight button-up. Back up to his eyes.
And then he smiled. Something so slow and warm and utterly devastating that it made Anakin's insides feel like molten rock.
“Darling,” Obi-Wan said, “I find that very difficult to believe.”
Anakin’s brain short-circuited. “What?”
Obi-Wan tilted his head, still smiling that infuriatingly charming smile. “I’ve been in this business for a long time. I’ve seen a lot of people walk through that door. And I can tell you with absolute certainty that if your date showed up and saw you sitting here, looking the way you do, he wouldn’t have left. He would have stayed.”
Anakin’s cheeks flushed hot. “You don’t even know me. I could be—I could be terrible. I’m bad at this. I’m bad at people. At dates. All of it. I’m—I’m a lot.”
"Anakin." Obi-Wan said his name like he'd known it for years, not like he'd just overheard it. "Look at me."
Anakin looked.
"You've been sitting in this corner for forty-five minutes," Obi-Wan said, his voice dropping lower, more intimate, like they were sharing a secret. "You haven't been on your phone. You haven't been loudly complaining. You haven't been making a scene. You've just been... waiting. Hoping. And when it became clear you'd been stood up, you didn't get angry. You got sad."
Anakin’s throat tightened. “I—”
“That’s not the behavior of someone who’s ‘a lot,’ Obi-Wan continued. “You care. You showed up. You tried.” He reached across the table, just barely, his fingertips grazing the edge of Anakin’s glass. “And anyone who couldn’t see that isn’t worth your time.”
Anakin stared at him. His heart was doing something ridiculous in his chest, something that felt dangerously like hope.
“Now.” Obi-Wan sat back, and his expression shifted into something more playful. “I have a proposition for you.”
“A proposition? What kind of proposition?”
Obi-Wan nodded toward the bar, where a couple of stools sat empty, bathed in warm light. “I have a better view from behind the counter. Better drinks, too. And I simply cannot bear to see you sitting here in this gloomy corner, looking like a kicked puppy, nursing a glass of water you clearly don’t want.”
“I—” Anakin started to protest.
“Come sit with me,” Obi-Wan said, and there was something soft in his tone. “Let me make you something that isn’t water. Let me keep you company. And if your date does eventually show up—” he gestured vaguely toward the door, “—you can go on your merry way. But in the meantime, I’d much rather have you where I can actually talk to you than watch you mope from across the room.”
Anakin blinked. “You want me to—you want me to come sit at the bar? With you?”
“I wouldn’t have asked if I didn’t.” Obi-Wan stood, smoothing down his shirt, and held out a hand. “What do you say? One drink. And if you’re still miserable after that, I’ll let you go back to brooding in the corner.”
Anakin looked at the offered hand. Strong. Capable. Nice. Just like he’d noticed from across the room.
He thought about Padmé's texts. About Cael, whoever he was, wherever he was. About the forty-five minutes of hoping that had curdled into embarrassment.
And then he thought about Obi-Wan’s smile. About the way he’d said darling.
“I wouldn’t even know what to order,” Anakin admitted, his voice smaller than he would have liked.
Obi-Wan’s smile softened. “That’s alright, sweetheart. I’ll take care of you.”
Anakin’s throat went tight. “One drink,” he managed, and took Obi-Wan’s hand.
***
Obi-Wan didn’t let go of his hand.
Not immediately, at least. He held it just long enough to guide Anakin through the crowd—the gentle pressure making Anakin’s pulse jump—and then released him only when they reached the bar.
Obi-Wan led Anakin to the stool at the very end of the bar—the one with the best sightline to the rest of the room, but also the one that put Anakin closest to where Obi-Wan worked. Close enough that when Obi-Wan leaned against the counter, his forearms were mere inches from Anakin’s hands.
“Alright,” Obi-Wan said, draping a towel over his shoulder. “You said you don’t know what you like. Let’s fix that.”
Anakin opened his mouth to protest—I didn’t say that, I just said I didn’t know what to order—but Obi-Wan was already moving, pulling bottles down confidently, like it was muscle memory. He worked quickly, but not rushed.
“You strike me as someone who thinks they like simple things,” Obi-Wan said, not looking up from his work. “But actually, you’ve got a complicated palate. You just haven’t had the right person show you yet.”
Anakin’s ears went red. “That’s—that’s a very bold assumption about someone you just met.”
“Is it wrong?”
Anakin thought about it. About the way he’d rebuilt his first podracer at nine, taking apart every piece just to see how it fit together. About the way he couldn’t leave a broken droid alone, had to understand its wiring, its logic, its heart. About the way he fell into things headfirst, always too much, always too fast.
“...No,” he admitted quietly.
Obi-Wan smiled, that slow, devastating thing, and slid a glass toward him. It was amber, but there was something else in it, something dark and herbal at the bottom, and a curl of orange zest floating on top.
“Old fashioned,” Obi-Wan said. “But I added a little something. A house specialty.”
Anakin lifted it cautiously. “What’s the house specialty?”
“Me being right about what you’d like.”
Anakin snorted and immediately clapped a hand over his mouth. “Oh my god, I’m so sorry.”
But Obi-Wan was laughing. “Don’t apologize. That was adorable. I can tell it came from the heart.”
“I do not snort.”
“Right. I believe you, dear.”
Anakin’s mouth went dry. He took a sip of the old fashioned and—oh. It was smooth, warm, with a hint of something smoky underneath, and the orange gave it just a whisper of brightness. It was perfect.
“Good?” Obi-Wan asked, already knowing the answer.
“It’s really good,” Anakin admitted.
“I know.” Obi-Wan grinned. “Now. Tell me something about yourself that isn’t ‘I got stood up tonight.’”
Anakin laughed. “That’s most of what’s on my mind right now.”
“Then let’s change the subject. What do you do? When you’re not being stood up in my bar?”
Anakin told him more than he’d meant to. He told him about the shop he owned with his younger sister—the little garage he ran out of a converted warehouse, fixing speeders and podracers and once, memorably, a droid that a kid had brought in with tears in its eyes.
“I feel like it’s more than just fixing them,” Anakin said, his hands moving as he talked. “I understand them. Like—you know how some people can just look at a person and know what they’re feeling? That’s what it is for me, but with machines. I look at a piece of wiring and I just know where it’s supposed to go. What it’s trying to do. Now to make it better.”
He caught himself, suddenly self-conscious. “Apologies. I’m rambling.”
Obi-Wan waved a dismissive hand. “I spend all night listening to people talk about things they don’t actually care about—their jobs, their exes, their portfolio managers. Hearing someone talk about something they love is… refreshing.”
Anakin’s chest went warm. “What about you?”
“What about me?”
“What do you love?”
Obi-Wan paused, a bottle halfway to a glass. For a moment, his expression flickered, something complicated passing behind those blue eyes.
“People,” he said finally. “I know that sounds trite, coming from a bartender. But I mean it. I love watching them. Figuring them out. Finding the right drink, the right word, the right moment to make them feel seen.” He set the bottle down and met Anakin’s gaze. “I love making people feel less alone.”
“That’s—that’s not trite at all.”
“No?” Obi-Wan’s voice softened.
“No.” Anakin held his gaze. “I think it’s beautiful, actually.”
Something passed between them. An understanding, maybe.
Anakin opened his mouth to ask him something—anything, but he was interrupted before he could form the words.
“Bartender!”
A customer three stools down was waving frantically, holding up an empty glass. Obi-Wan’s expression shifted, his face falling into a professional smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes.
“One moment,” he said to the customer. Then he turned back to Anakin, and there it was, the apology. The genuine, regretful I don’t want to leave but I have to that made Anakin’s heart ache.
“Don’t move,” Obi-Wan said, his voice dropping. “I’ll be right back.”
He said it with an air of urgency, like he needed Anakin to know that he would return.
Anakin nodded, his voice stuck in his throat.
Obi-Wan moved down the bar, and Anakin watched him go. Watched the way he leaned in to hear a customer’s order, the way he laughed at a joke, the way he mixed a drink with one hand while the other reached for a garnish.
But what Anakin noticed the most was that as Obi-Wan served the other customer, his eyes kept flicking back to Anakin.
Every few seconds, there was a glance. A check-in. Making sure he was still there. Still waiting.
Don’t move, he’d said.
And Anakin realized, with a start, that he wouldn’t. He’d sit here all night if he had to.
***
The bar thinned out slowly, like water draining from a basin. Groups of friends stumbled out into the night, laughing. Couples followed, arms wrapped around each other. The music became slower and slower. Anakin barely noticed any of it.
He only noticed Obi-Wan.
Every time Obi-Wan was pulled away—to mix a drink, to settle a tab, to laugh at a regular’s joke—Anakin’s eyes tracked him like a compass needle finding north. And every time Obi-Wan returned, sliding back into the space in front of Anakin’s stool like he belonged there, Anakin’s chest loosened.
He had tried to get up an hour earlier, when the previous crowd had piled around the bar, claiming that perhaps it was time for him to leave and that he mightn’t overstay his welcome. But Obi-Wan, while serving a drink to another customer, glared at him and mouthed, “Sit,” in a tone that left no room for argument.
Anyone who knew Anakin knew he was never one to be told what to do, but with Obi-Wan, he found he couldn’t disobey.
“You’re still here,” Obi-Wan said at one point, around ten-thirty.
“You told me not to move,” Anakin said.
Obi-Wan’s smile went soft at the edges. “So I did.”
***
By eleven-fifteen, the bar was nearly empty. Two stragglers at the far end, nursing the dregs of their drinks. A couple in the corner, heads bent together, whispering.
And Anakin, still on his stool, still nursing the same old fashioned—though Obi-Wan had refreshed it twice, each time with something new to try.
“You’re going to ruin me for other bartenders,” Anakin said, swirling the latest creation–something with a hint of chili.
“Good,” Obi-Wan said simply.
Anakin’s stomach flipped.
Obi-Wan was moving slower now, no longer the efficient machine of earlier. His movements had softened. He was wiping down the counter in front of Anakin, a task that definitely didn’t need to take this long, and his knuckles brushed against Anakin’s fingers each time he passed.
Accidentally.
Anakin was starting to suspect it wasn’t an accident at all.
“Last call,” Obi-Wan announced, his voice carrying to the few remaining patrons. He glanced at the couple in the corner, who were already gathering their things. At the stragglers, who were finishing their drinks. And then at Anakin.
“Last call for you, too, sweetheart.”
Anakin's heart did something complicated at the endearment. He opened his mouth to respond—to say something clever, something that would make Obi-Wan's eyes go dark again—but Obi-Wan was already moving, already turning away, already busying himself with something behind the bar.
The couple left with a wave. The stragglers settled their tabs and stumbled out into the night. The door swung shut behind them, and then—
Silence.
Just the faint drone of the cooler. The soft drip of a tap. The sound of Obi-Wan behind the bar beginning the slow, methodical process of closing up.
Anakin watched him. Watched the way his shoulders moved under his shirt, the way his fingers worked at rinsing glasses, wiping surfaces, turning off the lights behind the bar one by one until only the warm glow above Anakin’s stool remained.
“Do you need help?” Anakin asked, feeling suddenly useless.
Obi-Wan glanced up, and there was something almost amused in his expression. “You want to help me close?”
“I don’t know. I just—I feel weird sitting here while you work.”
“You’re a guest,” Obi-Wan said, setting down a glass. “Guests don’t work. They stay exactly where they are, looking lovely, and let themselves be taken care of.”
“That’s—that’s not—I’m not—”
“You’re not what?” Obi-Wan came around the bar, closer now. “Not lovely?”
Anakin opened his mouth, but nothing came out.
Obi-Wan smiled, slow and satisfied, and reached past Anakin to grab something off the counter—a bottle of something dark, Anakin couldn’t see what. His arm brushed Anakin’s shoulder as he did it. Accidentally, probably.
Maybe not.
“The thing about closing,” Obi-Wan said, straightening up, the bottle now in hand, “is that it takes forever. All that scrubbing. All that inventory. All that tedious counting.” He sighed, theatrical and long-suffering. “And then, after all that, I have to walk home. Alone. In the dark.”
He looked at Anakin with wide, innocent eyes.
Anakin blinked. “That’s… that’s rough?”
“It is,” Obi-Wan agreed solemnly. “Especially when there’s a perfectly good bottle of twenty-five-year-old whiskey that I just opened, and no one to share the rest of it with.”
Anakin’s brain caught up. “Oh. Oh, you mean—”
“I mean,” Obi-Wan said, stepping closer, close enough that Anakin had to duck his head to meet his eyes, “that my apartment is two blocks away. That I have comfortable seating. That the whiskey is already paid for.” He paused. “And that I’m not quite ready to say goodnight to you yet.”
Anakin’s throat went dry. “Obi-Wan.”
“Yes, dear?”
“What are you saying?”
Obi-Wan's expression shifted—something softer underneath the teasing. “I'm asking you to come drink whiskey with me. In my apartment. On my couch. Where we can talk without me having to run off every five minutes to serve someone else.” He tilted his head. “What happens after that is entirely up to you.”
Anakin stared at him.
This is a terrible idea, he thought. This is reckless. This is moving too fast. This is—
This is exactly what I want.
“Okay,” Anakin heard himself say. “Yeah. Okay.”
Obi-Wan's smile went bright—genuinely, unabashedly pleased. “Good. Give me ten minutes to finish up.”
He turned back to the bar, and Anakin watched him move with that same easy grace, but there was something different now. Something lighter. A little skip in his step that hadn't been there before.
Anakin pulled out his phone. Seven unread messages from Padmé.
Padmé (8:15 PM): Anakin I am SO sorry I was at dinner and my phone died and I just saw your text
Padmé (8:16 PM): Did he show???
Padmé (8:17 PM): Ani???
Padmé (8:30 PM): I'm coming over there
Padmé (8:45 PM): Okay I'm outside and I don't see you??? Did you leave???
Padmé (9:02 PM): I'm going home but PLEASE text me when you get this I'm worried
Padmé (9:45 PM): ANI
Padmé (10:12 PM): If you're dead I'm going to kill you
Anakin snorted. He typed back quickly.
Anakin (11:23 PM): I'm not dead. Met someone. Going back to his place. Will text you tomorrow.
Three dots appeared immediately.
Padmé (11:24 PM): WHAT
Padmé (11:24 PM): WHO
Padmé (11:24 PM): ANI WHAT DO YOU MEAN MET SOMEONE
Padmé (11:24 PM): IS HE HOT
Padmé (11:24 PM): IS HE THE BARTENDER
Padmé (11:24 PM): OH MY GOD HE'S THE BARTENDER ISN'T HE
Padmé (11:24 PM): ANI
Padmé (11:24 PM): DETAILS
Padmé (11:24 PM): I NEED DETAILS
Anakin grinned and shoved his phone back in his pocket.
“Ready?” Obi-Wan asked, appearing at his elbow with a coat in hand—his coat, Anakin realized, being offered to him.
“You don’t have to—”
“Take the coat, Anakin.” Obi-Wan said gently. “It’s cold out.”
Anakin took the coat. It smelled like him—like sandalwood, and he pulled it tighter around himself without thinking.
Obi-Wan’s eyes tracked the movement. Went dark again.
“Come on,” he said, his voice a little rougher now. “Let's get out of here.”
***
The walk to Obi-Wan’s apartment was short, but Anakin barely noticed the distance. All he noticed was the way Obi-Wan walked close to him, close enough that their shoulders brushed with every step. The way Obi-Wan’s hand hovered near the small of his back, not quite touching.
“I should warn you,” Obi-Wan said as they climbed the steps to his building, “my place is a bit of a mess. Books everywhere. Plants I’m probably killing. A cat that will judge you.”
“You have a cat?”
“Her name is Saba. She’s the true love of my life.” Obi-Wan unlocked the door and pushed it open. “She’ll warm up to you eventually. She’s just slow to trust.”
Anakin stepped inside.
The apartment was small, but warm. Bookshelves lined every wall, overflowing with volumes that looked well-loved and well-read. A slightly wilted fern sat in the corner. A ginger cat was curled on the couch, and she lifted her head to fix Anakin with a look of supreme disdain before tucking her nose back under her tail.
“She likes you,” Obi-Wan said dryly. “That's the warmest welcome she's given anyone in months.”
“I'm honored.” Anakin turned in a slow circle, taking it all in. “This is... this is really nice, Obi-Wan. It feels like you.”
Obi-Wan paused in the middle of hanging up his own coat. “What does that mean?”
“It means it’s warm. And lived in. And—” Anakin gestured vaguely. “There’s a lot of personality. A lot of you.”
Surprise flickered in Obi-Wan’s expression. Or vulnerability, maybe, quickly masked.
“Sit, dear,” Obi-Wan said, nodding toward the couch. “I’ll get the whiskey.”
Anakin sat. Saba eyed him warily but didn’t move. He held out a hand, palm up, letting her sniff if she wanted. She didn’t. But she also didn’t hiss, which felt like progress.
Obi-Wan returned with the bottle and two glasses, setting them on the low table in front of the couch. He sat down beside Anakin, close, but not close enough.
“I should tell you something,” Obi-Wan said, pouring two generous measures. “Before we go any further.”
Anakin’s stomach dropped. “What?”
Obi-Wan handed him a glass. Their fingers brushed, lingered.
“I brought you here because I wanted to,” Obi-Wan said slowly. “Not because I felt sorry for you. Not because you were vulnerable. Not because I wanted to take advantage.” He met Anakin’s eyes. “I brought you here because the moment you walked in, I couldn’t take my eyes off of you. And I wanted more time.”
Anakin’s heart pounded into his throat, cutting off his air supply.
“I know you came to the bar for a date with someone else, and I know this is probably the last thing you expected tonight. But I refuse to pretend that I’m not utterly, completely captivated by you.”
Anakin set his glass down. His hands were shaking, just a little.
“Obi-Wan, I came to the bar tonight expecting a mediocre date at best, and instead, I met you. I don’t care if it’s fast, or if it’s too soon, or if this is a terrible idea.”
He leaned forward, closing the gap between them.
“I want this,” he said. “I want you.”
Obi-Wan’s breath caught. His eyes dropped to Anakin’s lips, then back up.
“Anakin,” he whispered. “I’m going to kiss you now. And I’m not going to stop until you tell me to.”
“Then don’t,” Anakin breathed. “Don’t stop.”
Anakin leaned forward. Obi-Wan leaned in. The space between them shrank to nothing, close enough that Anakin could feel the warmth of Obi-Wan’s breath on his lips, could see the tiny flecks of gold in his blue eyes—
And then a furry ginger missile launched itself directly onto Anakin’s lap.
“Oof—”
Anakin’s head snapped back, his hands flying out instinctively to catch the cat before she could scramble away. Saba planted all four paws on his thighs, turned in a tight circle twice, and then flopped down like she owned him, kneading his leg with her paws.
"Oh my god," Anakin wheezed. "She—she just—"
"She's jealous," Obi-Wan said, his voice strangled somewhere between horror and barely suppressed laughter. "I've never—Saba, what are you doing?"
Saba blinked up at Obi-Wan with slow, unrepentant eyes, then tucked her nose under her tail and began to purr. Loudly. Like a tiny, furry engine.
Anakin stared down at her. Then at Obi-Wan. Then back down at the cat.
“Did your cat just cockblock me?”
Obi-Wan made a sound that was definitely a laugh, barely contained behind his hand. “I believe she has cockblocked me. I—she’s never—she doesn’t even like strangers. She hides under the bed for hours whenever anyone new comes over. She literally bit a plumber once.”
“Then why is she—” Anakin gestured helplessly at the cat now kneading his thigh with little needle claws, “—doing this?”
Obi-Wan’s composure finally cracked. He let out a delighted laugh, and Anakin’s chest soared at the sound.
“She approved of you,” Obi-Wan said, wiping his eyes. “That’s what this is. She’s claiming you. Marking her territory.”
“I’m being claimed by a cat?”
"By my cat. Which is worse. She's possessive." Obi-Wan reached out and scritched behind Saba's ears. The cat leaned into it, purring louder, but refused to move off Anakin's lap. "I think she's telling me you're a keeper."
Anakin's face went hot. "A keeper?"
"Her words, not mine." But Obi-Wan's eyes were soft, warm, full of something that made Anakin's heart stutter.
They sat there for a moment, frozen in the absurdity of it. Anakin with a cat on his lap, Obi-Wan with his hand still half-extended, both of them inches apart and suddenly, inexplicably, laughing.
"This is not how I imagined this going," Anakin admitted.
"No?" Obi-Wan's smile was crooked, fond. "What did you imagine?"
Anakin looked at him, at the silver in his hair, the crinkles at the corners of his eyes, the way his lips curved.
“I imagined kissing you,” Anakin said quietly. “And not stopping.”
The laughter faded, and an electrical charge returned to the air.
Obi-Wan’s hand moved from Saba’s ears to Anakin’s jaw, cupping it gently. His thumb traced the line of Anakin’s cheekbone.
“Saba,” Obi-Wan murmured, “I love you, but you’re going to have to move.”
Saba gave an indignant mrrp and dug her claws in deeper.
Anakin winced. “She’s not moving.”
“No,” Obi-Wan agreed, his voice dropping lower. “She’s not.”
His thumb traced Anakin’s lower lip, feather light.
Anakin's breath hitched. His eyes fluttered half-closed, leaning into the touch like a plant toward sunlight.
Obi-Wan's gaze flickered down to Saba, still sprawled across Anakin's lap, still purring, still utterly oblivious to the fact that she was the sole obstacle between two people who very much wanted to devour each other.
Then Obi-Wan's eyes flickered back up to Anakin's. Something ignited in them. A spark of an idea.
"Anakin," he said, his voice dropping dangerously, "how do you feel about being manhandled?"
Anakin’s brain short-circuited. “I—what?”
Rather than answering with words, Obi-Wan’s hands found Anakin’s waist and pulled.
Anakin let out a startled yelp as he was dragged off his stool and into Obi-Wan’s lap, his legs splaying awkwardly on either side of Obi-Wan’s thighs, his hands landing instinctively on Obi-Wan’s shoulders to steady himself.
Saba, displaced from her throne, tumbled onto the couch cushion with an outraged mrrOW and shot them both a look of utter betrayal.
“There,” Obi-Wan said, smug and breathless and grinning up at Anakin like he’d just won a prize. “Problem solved.”
Anakin stared down at him. His heart was pounding so hard he could feel it in his ears. His thighs were bracketing Obi-Wan’s hips. Their faces were inches apart, Obi-Wan’s hands still on his waist, fingers splayed wide.
“You—” Anakin’s voice cracked. “You just—”
“I just solved our cat problem,” Obi-Wan said innocently. “You’re welcome.”
Saba, from the armchair she'd relocated to, gave a long, disgusted yowl and began aggressively grooming her tail, pointedly ignoring them both.
"I don't think she's speaking to us anymore," Anakin managed.
"She'll get over it." Obi-Wan's thumbs traced slow circles against Anakin's hips, through the fabric of his shirt. "She's dramatic, but she's forgiving. Eventually."
Anakin swallowed hard. "And what about you? Are you forgiving?"
Obi-Wan's expression softened. His hands slid from Anakin's waist up his back, pulling him closer until there was barely any space left between them.
"Anakin," he said quietly, "I've been thinking about you in my lap since the moment you sat down at my bar. I'm not about to start complaining now."
Anakin's face went scarlet. "You—you what?"
"I'm a patient man," Obi-Wan continued, his voice a low rumble that Anakin could feel in his own chest. "I can wait. I can bide my time. I can watch a beautiful man across a room for forty-five minutes without doing a thing about it." His hands pressed into the small of Anakin's back, grounding him. "But I'm not patient about everything. And right now, I'm not feeling very patient at all."
“Thank god,” Anakin murmured, and kissed him.
It was so deep and so hungry and Anakin’s hands fisted in Obi-Wan’s shirt, pulling him closer, and Obi-Wan groaned, the sound traveling straight to Anakin’s core.
Saba, from her armchair, gave one last disgusted chirp and then fell silent, apparently resigned to her fate.
Obi-Wan’s mouth was warm and insistent, his hands mapping the curve of Anakin’s spine, pulling him impossibly closer. Anakin’s hips shifted instinctively, and Obi-Wan groaned against his lips.
“Anakin,” he berated, pulling back just enough to look at him. His eyes were wild, his hair disheveled, his lips kiss-swollen. “I need you to know—I haven’t done this in a long time. I haven’t wanted to do this in a long time.”
Anakin’s heart clenched. “Neither have I.”
“Then we’re both a mess,” Obi-Wan said, smiling that crooked, devastating smile. “Good. I like us better that way.”
He kissed him again, softer this time. Anakin melted into him, letting himself be held, letting himself be wanted.
When they finally broke apart, breathless and laughing and a little bit overwhelmed, Saba had fallen asleep on her armchair, her tail twitching occasionally in her dreams.
“I think she’s finally accepted us,” Anakin whispered.
“Don’t be fooled,” Obi-Wan murmured against his neck. “She’s plotting. She’s always plotting.”
Anakin laughed and buried his face in Obi-Wan’s shoulder.
"Your cat is going to murder me in my sleep," he said.
"Probably," Obi-Wan agreed. "But I'll protect you."
"Will you?"
Obi-Wan pulled back, just enough to meet his eyes. His expression was soft, tender, utterly unguarded.
"With everything I have," he said.
He kept that promise.