manchild; chapter seventeen: sugar talking.
anakin skywalker!70s x reader
summary: anakin skywalker starts his summer break as a heartbroken guy over the break up with padmé amidala, yet while he was drinking his blueberry slushy in a gas station by a desert highway, he met a girl called y/n y/l/n, who was a wild and free spirited girl with tons of flings. what if the summertime sadness turns into a fake relationship? anakin wants revenge and jealousy, and y/n wants fun and drama.
fake dating.
! warning: there will be a lot of sexual comments and references, just like cigarettes and alcohol
previous chapter: all the silence just makes it worse, really.
series masterlist: manchild.
chapter seventeen: sugar talking.
Whenever you start to fall in love, it feels like slipping into a pink haze, a bubble of something soft, dizzying, unreal. Everything starts to shimmer a little. Your lips curve into smiles you don’t even notice forming, your heart flutters at the sound of their name. Suddenly, colors you never paid attention to rose, coral, champagne become the palette of your thoughts.
You start caring about details again. The perfect lingerie set, the scent that lingers just long enough on your neck, the shade of lipstick that makes you feel like you could ruin someone in the best way possible.
You start imagining the small things, the kind that mean everything. A house where laughter echoes through the hallway. A pool where sunlight ripples on his skin. A bed that isn’t just for sleep but for whispers and warmth and tangled mornings. A bed of love. You see yourself dancing barefoot in the kitchen, cookies in the oven, The Ronettes on vinyl Be My Baby playing as if the universe decided to choreograph the moment just for you.
And your man, the one who made you believe in all of this, is standing right there, smiling like love is easy. Some people call it the honeymoon phase. Some call it delusion or even sugar thoughts.
Y/n called it hell.
Because for the first time, she cared. She cared enough to imagine it all, the home, the laughter, the future. She cared enough to want Anakin there. She started smiling at the thought of a life that didn’t even exist, building a whole future on top of something that might not even survive the present.
Love, for her, wasn’t pink it was a color that couldn’t decide what to be. A burning red when he kissed her, fading into blue when he wasn’t around. A palette of contradiction warmth and ache, desire and distance. She wanted to live in the future they’d never promised each other. But the truth lingered behind her like smoke that every shade of love she painted still ended in grey.
It’s funny how the universe twists things when you’re not looking. Y/n had promised herself the most scandalous summer—the kind people would whisper about years later. She wanted recklessness, the thrill of breaking hearts and curfews, doing the kind of dumb, shining things young people do when they still think the world is infinite.
And yet, here she was, halfway between a heartbreak and a dream, thinking about a romance that could be as hauntingly beautiful as Blue Velvet.
So she walked. She walked from her home all the way downtown—the air still warm, the sky washed in pale gold, trying to make sense of the storm in her chest. She walked to think. To breathe. To find out what the hell her heart wanted.
Was she capable of embracing love? Could she even say the words I love you without choking on them?
She used to swear she’d be the girl who made boys worry. But now she was the one worrying— pacing the same streets she used to rule, chewing on the ghost of her own laughter.
Her boots, worn brown leather, hit the pavement in a slow rhythm. Her white boho dress caught in the wind, light and untamed, and her jacket looked like something ripped straight out of a magazine where Daisy Jones was the cover girl—all wild hair, freedom, and ache.
But her head was low. She wasn’t the same girl who flirted for sport anymore.
The boys who whistled as she passed blurred into background noise. The familiar “Hey, Y/n!” from shop owners and classmates barely touched her ears. She didn’t hear them—not really. She was somewhere else entirely.
In the echo of his laugh. In the warmth of his breath on her neck. In the taste of his kiss still humming on her lips. It was ridiculous, really to feel him everywhere, even when he wasn’t there.
And then it hit her again, his scent. That maddening mix of smoke, metal, and rain that lingered like a phantom around her. She swore she could feel it on the back of her neck.
She stopped walking. Her pulse jumped.
What the fuck is wrong with me, she thought.
But she knew exactly what was wrong. She was falling—headfirst, gracelessly, disastrously—in love.
Y/n turned the corner sharply, her boots clacking against the pavement, her breath uneven. She needed answers before she fell into a full-blown panic attack, a panic attack made of love, confusion, and cigarette smoke.
The bell above the diner door jingled as she pushed it open. The familiar scent hit her like a memory, coffee, fried oil, a trace of cigarettes. The low hum of Detroit jazz rolled from the jukebox in the corner, and the ceiling fan spun lazily, struggling to keep up with the heat. This place hadn’t changed in years — red leather booths, chrome stools, and the comforting chaos of the morning rush. It was the kind of place where time slowed down, where heartbreaks were healed with milkshakes and sass.
She headed straight for the counter, sliding onto her favorite stool — the one with a tear on the edge that had been there since she was eight. Her hands trembled slightly as she dug for her cigarettes.
“Shannon,” she said breathlessly, “I need your strawberry milkshake. Double whipped cream. Actually—- make it two. Just in case I die before finishing the first.”
Shannon, who was polishing a glass behind the counter, stopped mid-motion. She turned slowly, one brow raised, her gold hoops catching the sunlight.
The Knowles family had been running this joint since forever — legends from Detroit with the best jukebox mixtape in the town and milkshakes that could fix anything except death. Y/n adored them. Ever since she was little, whenever she needed an escape or an alibi, this was where she came. It was her’s with Bail, their favorite people.
“Girl,” Shannon said, crossing her arms. “Not even a hello? No ‘how are you, Shannon, how’s your left foot after the operation?’ You just barge in here like a ghost that needs caffeine and whipped cream?”
Y/n blinked, finally looking up, lips pouting like a child caught sneaking candy. “Hi, Shannon,” she said, voice small. “How’s your foot?”
Shannon laughed, shaking her head. “Now that’s my girl. Foot’s fine, sugar. But what I really wanna know is what in the hell happened to you? You look like you just walked out of a breakup—or a music video— also what did I tell you about the cigarettes.”
Y/n sighed dramatically, flicking her lighter with shaky fingers. The flame trembled like her nerves. “Marjorie supports my nicotine addiction,” she said, half-grinning as she inhaled.
“Marjorie supports every crime a woman can commit,” Shannon muttered with a smirk, turning to make the milkshakes. “But I got you, honey.” Y/n smiled faintly, resting her elbows on the counter. Her reflection in the chrome napkin holder looked tired but alive — a girl torn between chaos and something dangerously close to love.
In the back kitchen, where the window was cracked open to let out the steam, a familiar voice called out. “Y/n, that you, my dear? I can smell your cigarettes all the way in here!”
Y/n lifted her head, spotting a head of silver hair peeking out from the serving window. Earl Knowles — Shannon’s father, Marjorie’s husband, the heart of the diner leaned against the sill with a rag over his shoulder, his voice rich with that Detroit drawl.
“Yeah, it’s me, Earl,” Y/n called back with a grin. “Good to know you’re still here. Thought you might’ve finally retired.”
Earl let out a booming laugh. “Retired? Ha! No one’s takin’ me away from this kitchen, sweetheart. And never trust Desmond with breakfast — boy still can’t crack an egg without makin’ a damn omelet explosion!”
As if on cue, Desmond walked past Y/n carrying a stack of greasy plates. “I heard that, Grandpa,” he muttered, bumping his shoulder lightly into Y/n’s. His smirk faded into curiosity as he looked her over. “You okay, Y/n? You look tense. Let me guess — cops finally caught you trying to steal cigarettes again?”
Y/n snorted into a laugh. “Not this time. Well… almost.”
Shannon slid two tall glass toward her across the counter — a strawberry milkshake crowned with two mountains of whipped cream. The glass clinked as it met the counter, and her eyes softened. “Then what’s wrong, sugar? You got that face again — the one that means trouble’s whisperin’ in your ear.”
Y/n hesitated, fingers tapping against the cold glass. She took a long sip through the straw, letting the sweetness stall her words. Finally, she muttered, almost to herself, “Guys… um… what’s it like being… I don’t know… in love?”
The diner fell silent for a beat. Shannon blinked, her eyebrows rising. “Whadda you say?”
Desmond froze mid-motion, holding a plate in midair. “Did I just hear her ask what it’s like being sick?”
Y/n groaned, hiding her face behind a curtain of curls. “I said— what’s it like being in love!” she mumbled louder this time, her voice cracking slightly.
Shannon gasped so loud it could’ve shattered glass. “Oh my god! Are you in love?”
Desmond nearly dropped his plates. “Wait— Y/n? In love?”
From the kitchen came Earl’s booming laughter. “Did I just hear Y/n and love in one damn sentence? Somebody better write that down!”
The whole diner seemed to laugh — the hum of jazz blending with their voices, the sound of milkshake glasses clinking, and Y/n’s cheeks turning bright pink under the neon lights.
Desmond leaned his elbow on the counter, grinning like he’d just found gold. “Well, well, well — the rebel queen has fallen! Who’s the lucky guy? A rockstar? A criminal? Or worse — a poet?”
Y/n squinted at him. “You’re hilarious. Really.”
He chuckled. “C’mon, Y/n, you? In love? That’s like hearing Grandpa Earl stopped drinking black coffee — impossible.”
Earl barked out a laugh from the kitchen. “Boy, don’t drag me into this mess. Love’s got her good, I can smell it from here.”
Shannon crossed her arms, her lips curling into a teasing smirk. “I knew it. I knew it. That glow on your face ain’t from the cigarette smoke — it’s from some fool with pretty eyes, huh?”
Y/n rolled her eyes, fiddling with her straw. “I’m not glowing, Shannon. I’m just… confused.”
Desmond put on a mock-serious voice. “Confused, huh? Step one of love sickness. Next thing you know, you’ll be writing sad poems about moonlight and heartbreak on napkins.”
“Step one is you shutting up,” Y/n snapped, but there was a smile tugging at her lips.
Shannon leaned closer, the neon light painting soft pinks across her cheekbones. “Listen, sugar, love’s like one of Earl’s milkshakes — sweet at first, then it gives you a headache if you take too much too fast.”
“Hey!” Earl shouted, mock-offended. “Don’t blame my milkshakes for your bad love metaphors!”
The room filled again with laughter, bouncing off the chrome and glass, that sort of warmth that lives somewhere between chaos and care.
Y/n sighed, her eyes dropping to the half-empty glass. “But what if… it’s not the right kind of love? What if he’s still in love with someone else?”
The diner went quiet for a beat. Desmond’s grin faded. Shannon softened, leaning one arm on the counter.
“Oh, baby,” Shannon said quietly, “then you better be careful. Falling for someone who’s still haunted by somebody else — that’s a heartbreak that drags you under slow.”
Y/n’s fingers tightened around the milkshake glass. The jazz hummed low and lazy in the background. “I just— I can’t stop thinking about him. Even when I try.”
Shannon smiled sadly. “That’s the thing about love, sugar. It don’t ask permission — it just walks right in and wrecks the furniture.”
Before Y/n could answer, a sharp voice cut through the air.
“Well, well, well,” Marjorie Knowles strutted out from the back with her floral apron tied crookedly, a cigarette hanging from her lips like it was born there. “What’s all this noise about love? You kids gossiping about Y/n’s tragic little heart again?”
Desmond groaned. “Here we go…”
Marjorie pointed the cigarette at Y/n like a judge with a gavel. “Girl, you look like you’ve been hit by a romance novel and dragged through a jukebox. Who’s the man? Don’t you lie to me — I can smell secrets the way Earl smells bacon.”
Y/n sighed dramatically. “You all are unbelievable.”
Desmond grinned. “She’s in love, Marjorie.”
Marjorie gasped, clutching her chest in exaggerated shock. “In love? Oh, Lord. Someone fetch the holy water.”
The diner erupted in laughter again. Marjorie shook her head, muttering, “I swear, this town will be the death of me. Love, milkshakes, and bad decisions — that’s all y’all ever bring through my doors.”
Y/n laughed softly, the sound drifting into a quiet smile. The neon lights flickered overhead, and for a moment — between the noise, the warmth, and the smoke — she could almost breathe again.
Shannon leaned in, soft smile playing at her mouth. “Now tell me, sugar — who is it? Benito from that band Lola drags herself to?”
Y/n frowned, shaking her head. “No. I don’t even know Benito. Since when is Lola in a band?”
Desmond waved a hand, grinning. “I pushed her into that audition ‘cause she pissed me off with her singing—”
Marjorie cracked him on the head with a rag. “Language, boy.”
Shannon titled her head, while giving Y/N a soft glance. ,,Who is it then?’
Y/n nodded and took another, longer sip of her milkshake. “Anakin … Skywalker.”
Desmond snorted and nearly dropped the plates. Shannon’s brow went up, eyes widening. Marjorie slid in beside Y/n, one hand settling on her shoulder like an anchor. “Anakin Skywalker? Isn’t that the boy from Kenobi? The one who’s always mooching around that old bookshop down the block?”
From the kitchen Earl called out gruffly, “Don’t you go calling him handsome—”
Marjorie snapped back without missing a beat, “Shut up, Earl, and make the damn omelet, or I’ll push you to your grave before retirement!”
Shannon gave a low whistle, propping her elbow on the counter. “Anakin Skywalker, huh? Lord, that boy’s got the face of trouble and the jawline of redemption.”
Marjorie hummed approvingly. “Mhm. I saw him once fixing that damn motorbike outside the bookshop. Had grease on his cheek, sun on his neck— I nearly crossed myself like a sinner in church.”
“Grandma!” Desmond laughed, nearly choking on his coffee. “You’re all acting like this is some movie.”
“It is a movie,” Shannon teased, looking then to Y/n. “And you, sugar, are the girl in the white dress making everyone in the audience nervous.”
Y/n laughed, cheeks flushed as she looked down at her milkshake. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I barely think before I act lately. One minute I’m yelling at him, next minute I’m—”
“Kissing him senseless?” Shannon finished, smirking.
Y/n groaned and hid behind her hands. “Oh my god, am I that predictable?”
Marjorie crossed her arms, leaning her weight against the counter. “No, baby. You’re just human. But lemme tell you something—”
She pulled the cigarette right out of Y/n’s fingers, tapping the ash into a nearby tray. “If you keep chasing a man who doesn’t know whether he’s lookin’ at you or still seein’ someone else, you’ll run yourself into the ground. Love don’t fix the wrong kind of wound, you hear me?”
Y/n’s smile faded, her eyes following the lazy swirl of smoke that rose between them. The jazz kept playing low in the background, the room suddenly smaller, softer. Marjorie’s voice gentled, but stayed firm. “You got a wild heart, Y/n. Don’t go handin’ it to someone who’s still learnin’ how to hold his own.”
For a moment, Y/n said nothing — just twisted the straw between her fingers, half-smiling in that impulsive, almost guilty way. “Yeah… but what if I already did?”
Marjorie sighed, shaking her head. “Then you better pray he don’t drop it, sugar.”
Earl wiped his hands on a towel as he stepped out from the kitchen, the scent of fried onions and coffee drifting with him. The screen door creaked behind, letting a little heat roll in from outside. He looked at Y/n — really looked at her — sitting there in her white dress, boots worn, lips on a straw like she was trying to sip the ache out of her chest.
“Ah, there’s that face,” Earl said, his voice deep and kind. “The same face your mama had when she fell for Bail. All storm and starlight, like she didn’t know if she was in love or in trouble.”
Y/n glanced up, the corner of her mouth twitching into a smile. “Probably both.”
Earl chuckled, that old warm rumble filling the air. “That’s the thing about love, sweetheart — it don’t ask for permission. It just kicks down your door, eats your breakfast, and leaves your records playin’ at two in the mornin’. But if it’s real, it’ll stick around to wash the dishes, too.”
Shannon leaned against the counter, smiling softly. “Listen to the old man — he’s right for once.”
Earl pointed a finger at her. “I’m always right, missy.” Then back to Y/n, his tone gentler. “Don’t you waste your light thinkin’ you gotta be anyone but you. That boy’ll either match your fire or get burned by it.”
Y/n’s eyes shimmered under the flicker of the diner neon — pink, red, gold — like a movie frame you’d pause just to remember.
Desmond grinned, wiping his hands on a rag. “See? That’s our Y/n. The hurricane with a heart.”
Marjorie smirked proudly. “Mhm. Our mess, but the prettiest kind of mess.”
That pulled a laugh from her — a real one this time, something bright and unguarded. She raised her milkshake glass like a toast. “To beautiful messes?”
Shannon clinked her glass against it. “To beautiful messes.”
And for a second — just a small, perfect second — everything felt lighter. The air hummed with laughter, the jukebox crooned some old Detroit soul, and Y/n could almost believe that she wasn’t lost. That maybe, just maybe, love didn’t have to ruin her.
The bell above the diner door jingled as Y/n stepped out, the air thick with summer heat and dust. She could still hear Earl laughing inside, Shannon humming along to the jukebox, Marjorie yelling something about “no more sad faces under my roof.” It all blended into the soundtrack of her life a hazy, soulful tune that followed her down the sidewalk.
Her boots scuffed against the concrete, the cigarette between her lips glowing faintly in the late afternoon light. The sun was leaning low, stretching gold across the streets, and the wind smelled of sugar, oil, and someone’s garden roses. Y/n walked without really knowing where she was headed — just letting the rhythm of her steps fill the silence that love left behind.
Earl’s voice still lingered in her mind: “Don’t waste your light thinkin’ you gotta be anyone but you.” She exhaled smoke and a soft laugh. “Easy for you to say, old man,” she murmured.
Her jacket brushed against her dress as she turned the corner. Downtown looked different at this hour — slower, quieter. Like the world was taking a long drag of its own. Her gaze fell on a small shop wedged between a record store and a tailor’s: a wooden sign, hand-painted, “Books & Oddities.”
The name caught her eye. Something about it felt like it belonged in an old love story — the kind with foggy windows and letters never sent. She smiled softly, crushing her cigarette under her heel before pushing the door open.
A bell chimed above her, and the smell hit her instantly — paper, dust, and a trace of cologne that felt like déjà vu. The kind of scent you’d find in the pages of a well-worn book. Inside, the light was dim, slanted through the blinds like slices of time. Books were stacked in gentle chaos, some old, some new, a few probably forgotten. And behind the counter, a man looked up from the pages of a thick novel.
The bell behind her door jingled again softly as if the whole world exhaled with her — and the camera, if there had been one, would’ve panned out through the window: the girl in the boho dress standing in a sea of books and dust-lit sunbeams, the city humming outside, and the faintest sound of The Ronettes playing from somewhere far off.
Y/n didn’t look at first who the man was; she just focused on the books around her, hoping maybe one of them held a character who dealt with the same dilemmas she faced. It was hard to even open them, hard to see what destiny awaited the characters inside. Dust clung to her fingertips as she touched the spines, finally stopping at The Bell Jar.
Sabine had recommended it often, some friends raved about it, others called it overrated. Curiosity won. Y/n picked it up and made her way to the counter, reaching for her coins — but a calm voice interrupted her thoughts.
“Hello there, Y/n!” Obi-Wan smiled warmly.
Y/n looked up, eyes widening. “Obi-Wan! I… I didn’t notice — wait, is this your bookstore?” Her smile was soft, tentative. Obi-Wan Kenobi — the kind of face you trusted immediately, someone who had seen too much and still found love in the world.
“Exciting, isn’t it? Always been a wish of mine to have one,” he said, tilting his head at her soft glance. “Mace even helped me find some good books. It’s good to see you, dear. How are you?”
Y/n held the book close, unsure how to explain the whirlwind inside her. “What’s the right word for when you feel so much that you don’t even know what you feel?”
Obi-Wan smiled. “Overwhelmed… but with joy hopefully?”
She nodded, placing the book on the counter. “Maybe that fits.”
He looked down at the cover, a soft twinkle in his eyes. “The Bell Jar. A lot of young girls have come in for it recently. You’ll probably find some answers there — your answers, not someone else’s.”
Y/n exhaled, a soft, almost shy smile forming. “I hope so… I’ve heard so many things about it.”
Obi-Wan’s gaze softened, steady and calm. “Here’s my tip: don’t listen to what others say. When your heart has an opinion, trust it. Your heart is always right.”
Y/n smiled faintly at his words, almost shyly, her fingers brushing over the cover of The Bell Jar.
“I think my heart’s been saying too much lately,” she admitted, her voice half-laugh, half-sigh. “Feels like it doesn’t know when to shut up.”
Obi-Wan chuckled softly — the kind of laugh that sounded like someone who’d seen storms and learned to love the rain anyway. “Well,” he said, leaning slightly on the counter, “that’s the trouble with hearts. They don’t ask for permission. They just… speak. And most of the time, they say things our minds aren’t ready to hear.”
Y/n looked up at him — there was that gentle steadiness in his eyes, something that made her want to tell him everything. The noise, the chaos, the ache she’d been carrying. Instead, she just exhaled softly and shrugged. “Yeah… mine’s been a bit of a loudmouth lately.”
He smiled knowingly, folding his hands in front of him. “That’s not such a bad thing, you know. I’d rather hear a heart that’s loud than one that’s gone quiet.”
There was a pause — the hum of the ceiling fan filling the silence, the faint sound of a record playing from the back room, maybe Bill Evans or Etta James.
Y/n looked down at the book again, her thumb tracing the worn spine. “Do you think people ever really find what they’re looking for? Like… do they find peace after all the noise?”
Obi-Wan tilted his head, thoughtful. “Sometimes,” he said quietly. “But I think most of us just learn to dance with the noise. Peace isn’t silence, Y/n — it’s knowing where to rest your heart in all the sound.”
That hit her — maybe more than she expected. She looked at him, blinking a few times, the sunlight catching the edges of her hair. He smiled softly again, eyes kind. “And if I know you at all,” he said, voice low and certain, “your heart isn’t lost. It’s just… looking for the right song to move to.”
For a moment, Y/n didn’t speak. Her throat tightened, a feeling like bittersweet warmth spreading through her chest. She smiled, almost teary-eyed but holding it back. “You sound like the kind of person who reads endings before beginnings,” she said softly.
Obi-Wan chuckled. “Maybe I do. But only because I’ve learned that every story finds its way — even the ones that start with a little heartbreak.”
She nodded, holding the book to her chest again, a small smile tugging her lips. “Then I guess I’ll start this one… and maybe it’ll tell me what my heart’s trying to say.”
“Good girl,” Obi-Wan said gently. “And remember — don’t be afraid of the chapters that hurt. They’re often the ones that matter most.”
Y/n looked at him, sunlight wrapping around her like a soft curtain. “Thanks, Obi-Wan,” she said quietly.
Obi-Wan shook his head with a gentle smile. “No, I should be the one thanking you, dear.”
Y/n blinked, confused. “What do you mean by that?”
He smiled to himself, eyes softening. “Ever since you and Anakin started seeing each other… he looks happier, lighter. And I’m genuinely happy for him. That… break up with Padmé… it left him really sad. I was worried about him. But now, when he sees you… he looks like he can breathe again. It’s rare to see Anakin smile that brightly, even when he walks into our home.”
Y/n’s eyes sparkled, like hearing a love confession directed just at her. “I… I didn’t do anything, really, Obi-Wan. I just… spent time with him.”
Obi-Wan nodded slowly. “And maybe that was enough for him. You’re a special girl, Y/n. I remember how much of a sunshine you used to be as a child… as if you were the sun, and Anakin, the moon.” He chuckled softly, a teasing warmth in his tone.
Y/n blinked, a small smile tugging at her lips. Was she really the sun? Or had she been hiding in the shadows, learning to be the moon?
Y/n leaned against the counter, the bell of the shop jingling as a warm breeze drifted in through the open door. The sunlight wrapped around her like a lazy film filter, casting long streaks across the wooden floor. She smirked at Obi-Wan, her hands cradling the book like a trophy. “So, let me get this straight… I’m the sun, and he’s the moon? That makes me the hot one, right?”
Obi-Wan arched an eyebrow, his lips twitching with amusement. “Careful, Y/n. The sun can scorch as easily as it warms,” he said, his tone gentle but tinged with that dry sarcasm she knew so well.
“Oh, don’t worry,” she said, “I’ll try not to burn him too badly… though he probably deserves a little singe after last night.”
Obi-Wan shook his head slightly, chuckling. “Ah, yes. That boy. Reckless as ever. I imagine you two are learning… from each other’s mistakes?”
Y/n snorted. “Learning? Obi-Wan, I think we’re inventing new ones at this point. It’s like… experimental chaos, with a side of… emotional fireworks.” She laughed softly, the sound bouncing off the walls and mingling with the faint hiss of the old jazz record playing from the corner.
He gave her a knowing smile. “Well then, consider this book on the house. Think of it as… guidance for troublemakers who insist on breaking hearts and rules alike.”
Y/n’s grin widened, her eyes sparkling with mischief. “Much obliged, Obi-Wan. I’ll try not to break anything else… too badly.” She tapped the book affectionately against her hip.
“And Y/n?” Obi-Wan added, his voice softening just a fraction, “don’t forget to breathe. Sometimes, troublemakers need that more than guidance.”
She couldn’t hide the warmth creeping into her chest. “Noted, Obi-Wan. I’ll try to keep my oxygen levels steady while ruining his life.”
Obi-Wan chuckled, a sound rich with quiet affection. “I look forward to seeing you soon, Y/n. Take care of yourself… and each other.”
Y/n gave a dramatic, mock-salute, spinning on her heel as she stepped toward the door. The bell jingled again, echoing through the shop. She paused for a moment, the city outside glimmering gold in the late afternoon sun. And then—she glanced at her watch.
4 PM.
Her chest tightened in that familiar, dangerous way. Anakin. He was waiting for her, somewhere in the streets she knew like the back of her hand. The thought made her pulse quicken, her stomach flutter in that dizzy, electric way. She hugged the book to her chest, almost like it was a shield against the nerves creeping up her spine—but really, it was just another excuse to linger in this quiet bubble before chaos resumed.
Y/n smirked, eyes scanning the streets ahead. The streets smelled of asphalt, warm air, and a faint hint of exhaust—but in a way that somehow felt cinematic, like the perfect track was playing for her, and the city had paused to set the stage. She imagined Anakin’s grin, that devilish tilt of his head, the messy curls sticking to his forehead, and the way he would probably joke about her sunglasses or the cigarette she still held between her fingers.
She stepped out fully, letting the sun wash over her like film light in a 70s coming-of-age movie. Each footstep felt like a drumbeat in a soundtrack made just for her—the kind of moment you might replay in your head forever. The thought of him waiting, of those blue-gray eyes scanning for her, made her smile—and made her pulse a little faster, her heart a little louder.
The milkshake warmth in her stomach, the residual sweetness, still lingered on her lips as she tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear. She inhaled sharply, the mix of anxiety, excitement, and desire wrapping around her chest like a song she couldn’t turn off. This—this was the thrill. The danger. The sweetness of feeling something completely outside herself.
Y/n straightened, flicking the cigarette carelessly, the smoke curling in lazy spirals around her. “Alright,” she muttered to herself, “let’s see if the sun can meet her moon today…without showing… anything crush…..signals…whatever’ she mumbles.
But then she saw him—leaning against the car, leather jacket pulled just right, cigarette lazily perched on his lips, curls sticking to his forehead in the perfect kind of messy. The warm afternoon light made him glow like some James Dean painting, jawline sharp, eyes like he knew all the secrets in the world. Y/n’s chest tightened, her pulse skipping in that familiar, dangerous rhythm. God, she wanted to kiss him—right there, on that beat-up hood, under the golden light.
She started running, her boots slapping against the asphalt, her thoughts evaporating with every step. By the time she reached him, she didn’t hesitate—she jumped, wrapping her arms around his neck with a grin. “What’s up, bad boy?” she teased, pressing a quick kiss to his cheek.
Anakin blinked, surprised, the cigarette almost forgotten in his hand. Then he tossed it to the ground, a laugh breaking free, warm and free. He swept her up, wrapping his arms around her waist and swinging her slightly. “Nothing,” he said, voice low and playful, “I was just waiting for you, princess. Got anything you wanted?” His sunny smile made her stomach do flips.
Y/n looked at him, at him—and in that moment, nothing else mattered. He was exactly what she wanted, exactly what she needed, and more. “Yeah,” she whispered, voice a little breathless. “I have.”
Anakin’s grin widened, and he leaned in slightly, his curls brushing her forehead. “Great. You know what I’m craving? A blueberry slushie… and a good movie. I’ve already decided which one.”
Her fingers threaded through his curls, playing with the soft chaos of his hair as the sun caught strands like threads of gold. “A movie, you say? Well… what is it? And please, no Goodfellas—I don’t need another heart attack today.”
He laughed, brushing his lips against her temple, arms holding her like he couldn’t let go. “Nope,” he said, voice teasing. “It’s Wild at Heart.”
Y/n gasped, eyes widening as if the world had just shifted. “By David Lynch?”
He nodded, his grin proud, loving the fire in her reaction. “I’m amazing, aren’t I?”
She leaned in closer, her fingers still tangled in his hair, her smile mischievous. “Don’t sugarcoat it,” she said, lips brushing against his in a soft, deliberate kiss. The kiss lingered, slow and knowing, and even in that small contact, she could feel the electricity that had been humming between them since the motel.
Anakin’s arms tightened around her, grounding her in the moment. “Never,” he murmured against her lips, “I’ll never sugarcoat it, princess.”
The car, the sun, the warmth of the street around them—it all disappeared except for the two of them. She could feel the teasing, the laughter, the desire, and the quiet hope wrapped together in the perfect, messy knot that was them. And for once, Y/n didn’t want to untangle it.
💋hi loves! another y/n focused chapter :) love her dearly and also marjorie is queen. btw keep track of the chapter because there are some little foreshadows about some certain shenanigans... also maybe a character? ;)
💋taglist: @user-3113s-blog @iloveneilperry @crisis-unaverted-recs @purplerose291 @sythethecarrot @wizzerreblogs @tsuki8844 @antifeetsoldier @canny1902 @idk-11s-blog @another-side-blog-again @damoclescallmeback @kappakappabara @littlemsenvyi @ficsineedtoreadlater @fictionalinspo2 @harryshorizon @wizzerreblogs @5secondsofmoxley @anakinslovergirl @throughparisallthroughrome @kers505 @suniika @slyhersophia @veronaspencil @noir-moon @flowerlanaa @berryonasummerevening @loliskywalker @applesaucers @giuliettas-things @winterssweetanne
