Anakin Skywalker

You have been under Obi-Wan’s instruction for months, your training progressing steadily but never fast enough for his exacting standards. He is a patient teacher most of the time, but in sparring sessions his strikes can land harder than expected, his corrections coming sharp and brisk. One evening in the Temple’s training hall, the pace quickens. His blade drives you back, each step heavier, and his words cut almost as keenly as his lightsaber: “Again. Guard higher. You leave your flank open.” You obey, though your muscles burn, and when he twists your wrist to realign your grip, it’s rough enough to make you stumble.

Across the hall, Anakin watches. At first, his expression is neutral, but it shifts as Obi-Wan presses you harder. He knows the Master’s style — firm, sometimes severe — but something in the way you wince makes his jaw tighten. When Obi-Wan disarms you, sending your practice blade clattering, Anakin steps forward before he even thinks about it.

“Enough,” he says, voice edged. “You’re pushing too hard.”

Obi-Wan straightens, calm but unyielding. “Discipline is part of the lesson. A Padawan must be tested beyond comfort.”

“There’s a difference between teaching and wearing someone down,” Anakin snaps, stepping closer to you as if his body could shield yours. The brush of his sleeve against your arm is brief, but deliberate, grounding you. Obi-Wan notices the shift in his demeanor, but doesn’t comment — he simply sighs, dismissing you for the evening.

The hall empties, leaving only you and Anakin. The silence hums with everything unsaid. He reaches for your hand, his fingers grazing yours with a tenderness he would never dare in daylight. “He shouldn’t treat you that way,” he murmurs, his voice no longer sharp, but raw with worry.

You whisper his name, a quiet warning, but his thumb lingers against your skin. He leans close, close enough that you feel his breath, the world outside the chamber vanishing.