look at me - anakin skywalker x reader
➤ anakin x reader, oneshot, slow-ish burn, modern au, brother's best friend, slightttt age-gap, protective!anakin, mutual pining, drunk confessions, kinda forbidden romance
wc ⭑ 12,985k
summary ⭑ You’re home for the summer after your first year of college. Anakin’s still your brother’s best friend. Still always around. But something’s different this time.
It’s late.
The kind of late where everything outside the window looks like one big shadow, where the fan in your brother’s room clicks in fast, noisy circles against the ceiling but the air still feels thick enough to cut.
Anakin shifts on the floor, the controller warm in his hands, a soft electric blue glow flickering from the TV screen onto his face. He’s halfway through another round—some video game battle he’s too good at to lose—and the only other sound is the steady rhythm of your brother snoring on the bed behind him.
The whole room smells like sweat, dust, and the beginnings of summer.
Anakin’s not even sure what time it is. Two? Three? Doesn’t really matter. School’s out, no one works tomorrow, and this house has always been kind of a second home. The plan was to crash for the night, maybe sneak into the kitchen later, and finish the chips in the pantry before anyone else woke up.
Then his phone buzzes. He almost doesn’t look at it—probably just some dumb meme in the group chat—but something makes him check. Your name. Glowing across his screen.
He blinks. Stares at it.
Weird.
You shouldn’t be awake. You’re never one to call him directly, not like this. Not in the middle of the night. Not when you’re staying in your college town, just a couple of towns over, and haven’t been home in days, despite the academic year having ended. Anakin glances over his shoulder. Your brother’s still out cold.
He swipes to answer.
“Hello?” His voice is tentative, confused.
There’s muffled noise—a lot of it—on the other end. Music, voices, shouting, obnoxious laughter. And then your voice cuts through, suspiciously high and slurred.
“Heyyyyy Anii,” Your voice pours into the speaker, sweet and stupidly loud. Dripping with the kind of sugarcoated intoxication that makes his stomach drop.
Anakin’s eyes flick to your brother, still snoring, dead to the world, before he turns back to the glowing screen and turns it off completely. He lowers his voice.
“Hey,” he says carefully. “You alright?”
There’s a delay. Some guy shouts something muffled in the background, hawking obnoxiously, and you just… giggle.
“I’m fiiiiine,” you say, which is exactly what people say when they’re not. “But like… not really? I don’t wanna be here anymore.”
He sits up straighter at that. “What’s going on?”
You hum, distracted. “I dunno. I just don’t wanna be here anymore, Ani.”
Your voice lands softly in his ear. Vulnerable. No one calls him 'Ani' anymore.
“Where are you?”
There’s some shuffling. A creak. Then your voice again, quieter, like you’ve pulled the phone away from your mouth a little.
“Uhm… I’m in the closet. I’m hiding,”
He blinks. “No, that’s not— Wait, why are you hiding?”
Another laugh from you, and this one doesn’t even try to sound normal. “People keep being weird,” you say, and he can practically hear the little pout in your voice. “Guys keep, like… putting their hands on my waist when I walk past? And this one dude keeps trying to get me to go upstairs with him.”
You laugh again. But it’s not funny.
“I told him no. Like, no. But he won’t shut up. So yeah,” you drawl, voice wobbling on the edge of sing-song. “I’mmmmm in a closet.”
Anakin’s already on his feet, keys in hand, sneakers half-on. His jaw clenches.
“Where are you exactly? Text me the address. Now.”
“I think I did already?” you murmur, like you’re not even sure. “Or maybe I just meant to. I dunno.” A pause. The tiniest exhale from your end. “I’m really dizzy.”
He’s already out the door.
“Okay. I’m coming to get you,” he says, moving fast. “Right now. Don’t talk to anyone. Don’t drink anything else. Just stay put.”
You sniff. “What if someone opens the door? I don’t want them to find me. They’ll call me lame.”
“I’ll be there in ten minutes.” He pulls the door shut behind him, strides down the driveway, teeth gritted. “You shouldn't give a damn what they call you.”
Another breath from you. Wobbly.
“Thanks, Ani,” you whisper. “I just—I didn’t know who else to call.”
“You don’t need anyone else,” he mutters, slipping behind the wheel and turning the keys hard. “I’ve got you.”
The line goes quiet, but he doesn’t hang up. He leaves it open lets you breathe on the other end while he speeds toward you like his life depends on it.
The inside of the car is quiet now, just the low rumble of the engine and the rhythmic click of the turn signal every few streets. You’re slouched in the passenger seat, head tipped back, eyelids heavy. Hair a little messed up, makeup smudged under your eyes. You’ve kicked your shoes off, and your knees are pulled up like you’re trying to disappear into yourself.
Anakin keeps his eyes on the road. He hasn’t said much since he pulled you out of that party. Didn’t need to. You weren’t really saying much either. You yawn suddenly, breaking the silence.
“Your car smells the same,” you mumble.
He raises a brow but doesn’t look over. “Cool.”
“Like gas station air fresheners and... anger...yeah.”
That gets him to glance sideways. (He doesn’t even try to understand what that means) “Don’t push it.”
You smile stupidly. “M’not pushing anything. Just sayin'.”
He doesn’t respond. Not really in the mood to banter. His fingers drum once against the wheel, sharp and impatient.
“I didn’t mean to ruin your night,” you say after a beat, quieter now.
“You didn’t.”
“You were prob'ly busy.”'
"Busy in a video game, I guess."
You snort. “Thrilling.”
Another silence. This one stretches longer. You shift, pressing your cheek to the window, voice drifting. “Y’didn’t have to come get me.”
Anakin shrugs. “You called.”
“I knoww. But y’still didn’t have to…”
“Well, I did,” he mutters. “Not really the kind of thing I’d ignore.”
You don’t reply right away. Then, “You always get weird when you’re doing something nice.”
“Maybe you get weird when you’re drunk.”
You laugh again, softer, but it fades quick.
The porch light is off when he pulls into the driveway. The street is dead quiet, just the chirp of crickets and the low whizz of the engine cooling. Anakin puts the car in park and glances over.
You’re a mess, to put it kindly. Your eyeliner is smudged halfway to your temple. There’s a sticky ring of something dried on your thigh, probably someone else’s spilled drink. And you’re blinking at the door like you forgot how to use arms. He exhales slowly, scrubs a hand down his face.
“Alright,” he mutters, getting out.
By the time he’s on your side, you’ve somehow managed to open the door and plant your feet on the ground. You immediately sway, gripping the frame for balance.
“I’m fine,” you mumble. “I got it.”
“You’re wearing one earring and no shoes.”
You look down, confused. “Shit… when did that happen?”
He doesn’t answer. Just gently grabs your arm and slings it over his shoulders like he's done this before. You don’t fight it. Too tired, too drunk, too whatever. You just lean into him, warm and damp with summer air and sweat and sugar.
The front door creaks open without resistance. He remembers where your parents keep the spare key. Remembers the way the floors creak if you step wrong, and which areas to avoid. He doesn’t even have to think about it.
You stumble once on the stairs. He catches you, and you laugh like it’s funny.
“You’re stronger than I remember,” you say.
“That’s because last time I carried you, you were twelve.” He grumbles, clearly unamused and growing increasingly irritated.
“You carried me?”
“Sprained ankle. Water park.”
“Oh.” A beat. “That was nice of you.” You definitely don't remember.
He doesn’t answer.
Your bedroom’s the same, a little older, maybe. New sheets. Fewer posters. Same sickly strong smell of that scented perfume you always overuse. Anakin eases you down onto the bed, and you flop backward with a fwump and a dramatic groan.
“This is the worst I’ve ever felt,” you moan, arm flung over your eyes.
“Probably because you drank like a moron.”
“Don’t be mean to me. I was vulnerable.”
“You hid in a closet.”
“For safety!”
He snorts. “Yeah. How’d that work out?”
You don’t respond. Just lie there, half-sprawled, breathing heavy.
And then, muffled: “I feel gross.”
He sighs. “You want to wash your face?”
“Mmmmhhmmmm.”
Anakin disappears for a second, grabs a towel from the bathroom, and wets it under the tap. He comes back and finds you sitting upright, barely, dress half-off one shoulder, and eyes glassy. You blink at him, lashes crusted with mascara. “You’re, like… a good guy, huh?”
“Don’t start,” he says, crouching down and starting to wipe the makeup from your cheeks.
Your skin’s warm. Still damp. You’re breathing unevenly.
“Why’d you come, Anakin? Seriously,” you whisper suddenly.
He stops. Looks at you. “What?”
“I could’ve called, like, literally anyone. You didn’t have to show up.”
“I know,” he says.
“So why’d you?”
He doesn’t answer right away. Just wrings out the towel, folds it, presses it gently to your jaw. Your eyes flutter.
“I guess I don’t like the idea of you hiding in closets to feel safe.”
You hum. Lean a little closer. Too close, maybe, but he doesn’t move.
You’re close enough to see each detail of his face. You’ve seen it all a hundred times before already, but even in your drunkenness, you know where every line is. Every dimple, every freckle. Where the blue of his eyes turn grey. Over the years, you’ve come to memorize every part of his face.
Not in a weird way, though. Definitely not. You’re just... observant.
Yeah, observant.
“You’re really pretty, you know that?”
It’s airy and matter-of-factly. Like an observation rather than a compliment. Anakin freezes. His hand stops mid-motion, the towel stills in his grip. He looks up, and your eyes are glued on him—heavy-lidded, glassy, murky with exhaustion and alcohol.
You smile, just barely. “Like… annoyingly so.”
He stares at you, now seriously concerned about how much alcohol you've consumed tonight.
“Okay,” he says finally. “Time for sleep.”
“I’m serioussss,” you whine.
“You’re drunk.” As fuck, he thinks but doesn't say.
You shrug against the pillow. “Doesn’t mean I’m blind.”
His jaw tightens, uncomfortable (and nervous?) with his best friend's little sister telling him this to his face. “You’re not thinking straight.”
You hum. “I’m thinking very straight.”
He stands too fast. The movement jerks the towel in his hands, flinging stray drops of water your way.
You giggle at him—slow and hazy, a little mean in the way that only a drunk girl can be. “Why’re you so weird about compliments, Ani? Don’t girls tell you you’re hot all the time?”
“Okay, stop.”
“Touchy.”
He turns away, muttering, “You have no idea what you’re saying.”
“I do, though.” Your voice follows him like a needle, threading itself around his spine. “I’ve been thinking about your hands for, like, twenty minutes.”
He halts halfway to the door, utterly mortified now.
“You’re just—tall,” you slur, fingers lazily fisting in the comforter. “And your arms are stupid. I don’t know. You look good. Even when you’re mad. I've always thought that,” you stupidly confess, "but it's a secret, so don't tell!" You press a shushing finger to your lips to really emphasize your hypocrisy.
His breath catches somewhere between disbelief and something worse.
You sink deeper into the mattress, eyes fluttering. “You always look at me like that, too…”
He wishes you would just stop talking. (He wishes he didn't want to hear you say more)
“Like what?” It slips out before he can stop it.
You don’t answer right away. Just breathe. One slow inhale, one slower exhale. Then:
“Like you’re trying not to.”
He closes his eyes, just for a second. Then looks at the door, and back at you. You’ve rolled face down in your bed now, mere moments from unconsciousness swallowing you whole. Ankin takes in the weirdly beautiful but messy sight of you, and resolves to take everything you've word-vomited with a grain of sand. There's no way even you know what you're babbling about. You'll probably be just as mortified as he is come morning. If you even remember anything, that is.
“Ani? Can you stay with me?” You mumble into your sheets. He’s not even sure you know you’ve said anything at all.
Anakin turns and leaves. He doesn’t slam the door—doesn’t even make a sound.
But he doesn’t sleep, either.
-
The next morning, you're up like normal.
You wake up on time, scream into your pillow and die inside because you 100% do remember the previous night, clean yourself up, and make it to the breakfast table without a hitch. Not bad for a girl with a hangover and a night full of horrifically regrettable moments.
You’re not overdressed, not underdressed—just comfortable. Hair hidden beneath a too-big hoodie, eyes still a little puffy, but alert. Present. Balanced unsteadily on the edge of normal.
With all the nonchalance in the world, you eat your pancakes—smothered in syrup and butter, just how you've always liked them.
To the untrained eye, you're just a girl eating breakfast.
To Anakin’s eye, you’re trying too hard to look like you didn’t call him last night from a closet, slurring your way through nervous giggles and asking to go home.
He watches from across the table as you take another bite, nod along to something your brother’s rambling about—some plan for the afternoon, maybe a pick-up game later—and hum around your fork like you’re totally engaged.
It almost makes him roll his eyes. Almost.
Instead, he just cuts into his own pancakes. Dry. Butterless, syrupless, bland. You’ve teased him about it before, wrinkling your nose and calling him a sociopath for eating them that way.
He thinks about that, about you, every time he has pancakes for breakfast.
You sneak a glance at him—just a flicker—and catch him already looking. Your eyes widen for half a second, then drop back to your plate.
The thing is: he’s always been around. Summers like this always blur together. You in the kitchen at midnight, stealing popsicles. Him on the porch, nodding off while your brother talked at him for hours. So maybe you've harbored the tiniest crush on him for forever now, but you’ve been background noise to each other’s lives for years. And maybe you've also just ruined that precarious balance in one stupid, drunk night.
This morning doesn’t feel quite the same, and that terrifies you. You definitely fucked up.
“Hey,” your brother says, elbowing Anakin. “You down to hit the court later? Mikey and them said they’d be at Lincoln by three.”
Anakin nods, slow. “Yeah. Sure.”
Then he glances your way again, just for a moment. You’re drinking apple juice, eyes glued to your plate, like you didn’t hear anything—but he can see it in the twitch at the corner of your eye. You did.
You’re hyper-aware of him. Just like he’s suddenly hyper-aware of you. He clears his throat and turns back to his plate. Takes another bite. Still dry.
He wonders if you remember everything you said last night—how your voice caught when you called him pretty, the way you leaned so close, the way your fingers twisted in your comforter while you watched him from your bed like he was made of questions you couldn’t stop asking.
This morning, it’s all clean slates and syrup.
It’s nothing, really.
But it lingers.
Your dad gets up first, muttering something about the garage. Your mom follows. Your brother trails behind a second later with his empty plate and a lazy promise to come back for the dishes.
Which leaves you and Anakin. Still seated. Still quiet. Still not looking at each other.
You reach for the syrup again, even though your pancakes don’t need more. He shifts like he might stand, then doesn’t. So you just finish your breakfast in this awkward silence.
Eventually, you sigh. Get up. Start gathering plates. He moves at the same time. It’s too practiced to be accidental. You’ve done this dance before.
The radio hums from the windowsill. Something low and vaguely nostalgic. The faucet squeaks on. The soap smells like lemon. The silence is louder now, in the empty kitchen.
You rinse. He dries. Routine.
For a while, that’s enough.
Then, finally:
“So,” you say without looking at him, “gonna judge me forever or just for the rest of the week?”
Anakin glances over, towel draped across his shoulder, plate in his hand. “What makes you think I’m judging?”
“You keep looking at me like I’ve got ‘caution: biohazard’ stamped on my forehead.”
He smirks faintly. “That’s just your hangover talking.”
“My hangover says I was fun.”
He pauses—fingers stilled on the plate like he’s caught between a smile and something more cautious.
“You were something,” he says finally, looking off into nothingness, like he's remembering something.
You glance at him. “That sounds ominous.”
“I’m just saying…" he says slipping out of his trance. "I’ve never gotten a drunk call from someone hiding in a closet before.”
You snort. “It was safer in there.”
“Debatable.”
You rinse the next plate a little too thoroughly. More silence. He sets down the towel.
“You always get like this when you’re hungover?” he asks, casual.
You glance at him. “Like what?”
“All… defensive. Domestic.” He nods toward the sponge in your hand. “It’s unsettling.”
“Sorry I’m not wasted in a closet this morning,” you deadpan.
He chuckles under his breath.
“Seriously, though,” he says, quieter now, “you okay?”
Your face heats as you nod, then shrug.
“Sorry for calling you.”
He gives a shrug of his own. “You called. I came.”
“I know, but—”
“I’d rather you call me than stay somewhere you feel unsafe.”
You look at him then. Really look. And he doesn’t flinch this time.
You don’t say anything. Not out loud. But you pass him the next plate, and your hand brushes his in the exchange. His fingers are warm, yours are damp. You pull away quickly, but an embarrassingly sizable part of you wanted to linger. He doesn’t mention it, but the quiet that settles after is different than before. Not awkward anymore. Just… aware.
You hand him another dish, then toss a wet spoon at his chest without warning. He catches it in his other hand with a surprised grunt. “Are you serious?”
You grin. “Are you mad?”
“You’re annoying.”
“I’m endearing.”
“You’re a child.”
“Nuh uh.” You chuck another spoon.
He catches it again, smoother this time, and narrows his eyes. “I swear to god, I will hit you.”
You laugh, genuinely, for the first time that day. Anakin very poorly contains a grin that makes the corners of his eyes wrinkle in a way you saw way more as kids.
And for a few seconds, it’s easy to forget the things you said the night before. Easy to pretend you didn’t call him in the dark, slurring his name knowing it meant safety. Easy to pretend your cheeks aren’t still flushed from remembering the way his hands touched your face, your hair, your jaw.
You rinse. He dries. Just like always.
But something feels new.
And neither of you wants to look too closely at why.
-
Your annual family-plus-Ani-summer-vacay has finally arrived.
The sun’s low in the sky, just starting to bleed orange across the windows of the hotel. June heat clings to everything—the railings, the stucco walls, the itchy pool towels slung over plastic chairs. The hum of vacation lingers in the air: laughing kids, the splash of cannonballs, and nearby music playing something faint and summery.
Anakin’s sprawled across a lounge chair at the edge of the pool deck, hoodie unzipped halfway, hood pulled up like it’ll shield him from the last rays of the sun. His sunglasses are too big for his face, probably stolen from your brother, and he’s chewing idly on the drawstring.
He’s not really paying attention to anything.
Until you walk out.
He only glances up at first. Just a reflex, a flick of the eyes to check who’s coming through the gate. And then—
Oh.
That’s not what he was prepared for at all.
You’re in a bikini—nothing scandalous, truly, but somehow the sight of you in golden sunlight, breeze-filled hair, and sun-kissed skin (so much of it holy-) knocks the breath right out of him. You’ve got a towel looped over one arm, sunglasses pushed into your hair, flip-flops clapping lazily against the concrete. Casual. Confident. Like you belong here.
And the worst part is—you do.
You’re not some wide-eyed kid anymore, tagging along, interrupting video games and stealing chips. You look… older. Different. Beautiful.
And he hates the way it makes his stomach twist. He hates the way he's only just now feeling flustered and confused.
You don’t even notice him looking.
You just toss your towel onto a chair and stretch—arms above your head, body arching with the lazy elegance of someone who doesn't know they’re being watched.
He forces himself to look away, feeling something akin to shame for seeing you in such a way. You, who he's known the majority of his life. You, who's just been background noise to him until very recently. You, who is definitely not a kid anymore.
Your brother barrels past a second later, nearly clipping your shoulder with a pool noodle.
“Last one in’s gotta buy ice cream!”
He’s already halfway into the pool before you even respond, and Anakin’s grateful for the distraction—until you start walking toward the edge of the pool too.
You pause. Turn slightly toward him.
“What, you’re not swimming?” you ask, raising a brow. “What kind of vacation guest are you?”
He shrugs, playing it off. “Don’t wanna get chlorine in my eyes.”
“Lame-o.” You flash him a grin, then jump in. The water swallows you whole.
Anakin sits still for a minute, sunglasses sliding down his nose.
You resurface, laughing. Your brother splashes you immediately, and you retaliate like a menace. The two of you start bickering in that familiar way you always do—loud and competitive and just natural. He should be annoyed.
He’s not.
He’s still watching you.
It’s stupid. He knows it’s stupid. You’re you. You’ve been in his peripheral vision for years—whining about cereal, hogging the backseat on road trips, falling asleep with your mouth open on movie nights. You’re his best friend’s little sister.
But now?
Now you’re swimming in the hotel pool with the sun turning your skin into gold, water catching in your lashes like diamonds, mouth curled up in a smile that’s not really meant for him—but feels close enough to count. And suddenly, he doesn’t know where to look.
He leans back and pulls his hood further over his head like an idiot.
Eventually, you swim to the edge near where he’s sitting.
“You sure you’re not getting in?” you ask again, chin resting on your arms as you grip the concrete ledge.
He shrugs. “Pool’s full of germs.”
“You’re full of excuses.”
Your smile lingers just a little too long. Your eyes flick over him, assessing—maybe teasing. Maybe nothing at all. But it lands. God, it lands.
He feigns nonchalance and tosses his sunglasses onto the lounge chair beside him.
“You’re gonna turn into a raisin if you stay in there much longer.”
“Jealous?”
“Of raisin girl?”
You splash water at him.
It hits his knees. He jerks back in exaggerated offense, grabbing a rolled-up towel like a shield. You’re already swimming away, laughing, disappearing under the surface again.
And Anakin watches, heart ticking faster than he wants to admit, jaw tight, fingers curled loosely around the frayed edge of the chair. This trip was supposed to be a break. A week of beach days and bad hotel breakfast and sunburns. A week of sleep and nothing.
But something feels different.
You’re not the girl in the room across the hall anymore. And he doesn’t know what to do with that.
Hours of splashing and treading pass. The sun sinks lower. The pool clears out. A few little kids are herded away by their parents. The music fades. Your brother's long gone—ran back inside for snacks or a charger or something he forgot—and suddenly, it's just you and Anakin and the slow churn of the water against the tile.
He hasn’t moved from his lounge chair.
You’re still in the pool, arms resting on the edge near where he sits. The water drips from your hair, beads on your collarbones, trails down your skin in ways he doesn’t mean to notice but keeps noticing anyway. You tilt your head up at him.
“You’re still not gonna swim?”
He looks down at you. Shrugs. “Didn’t bring trunks.”
You scoff. “What, they don’t sell shorts in this city?”
“I didn’t come here to swim.”
“Then what’d you come for?” The question hangs.
It’s not flirtatious—not really. But it lands wrong. Or right. Or somewhere in between. Anakin’s throat tightens.
He could say he came because he always comes. That your parents like him. That he needed a break. All of it would be true. None of it would answer why he hasn’t stopped watching you since the minute you walked out here.
You raise a brow, waiting.
Anakin looks away. “Came for the dry pancakes,” he says finally.
You laugh, soft and breathless. Then—slowly—you push yourself out of the pool.
He shouldn’t look.
He absolutely shouldn’t look.
He does.
Water clings to you. Your legs are bare. Your swimsuit hugs tight in ways that make his fingers flex against the chair arms. You move so painfully naturally—like this is all nothing, like you’re still just his best friend’s little sister who steals fries and punches his arm when he teases you.
But that’s not who you are anymore.
He knows it. His body knows it. And it’s driving him insane.
You grab a towel from the back of a chair and start drying your hair. “You’ve been weird lately,” you say over your shoulder, like it’s nothing.
He stiffens. “Weird how?”
“You’re quieter.”
“I’m literally always quiet.”
You turn to face him, still toweling off. “No. You’re…watchful.”
His jaw twitches. You don't even realize how right you are.
He doesn’t know when it started. Maybe today. Maybe the night he picked you up from the party. Maybe longer ago than that. He thinks about the way your voice had cracked on the phone, the way your fingers had brushed his, how easily you’d leaned into him without hesitation, even drunk. He thinks about the way your mouth had formed his name in the dark.
Ani. No one calls him that anymore.
Except you.
You drop the towel onto your chair and sit beside him, damp and unbothered, knees brushing his. You’re close. He doesn’t move. He can smell your lotion now—something floral and sweet that makes his head spin.
You sigh. “You never used to look at me like that.”
He turns to you. “Like what?”
You shrug, searching his face, looking for what that is exactly.
“I don't know.”
His pulse skips.
You meet his gaze, and for a second it’s too much. The way your lips are parted, your eyes all lit up and curious, the heat still clinging to your skin from the sun. He wants to say something. Push you away. Pull you closer. Something.
Instead, he looks away. “You should head back in,” he says.
You frown. “Why?”
“It’s late.”
You lean forward slightly. The shift in weight brings you even closer. “You’re uncomfortable.”
He huffs a laugh, sharp. “Not really the word I’d use.”
“What would you use?”
His eyes flick to yours. Steady. Quiet. Loaded.
You blink, maybe realizing how close you are now. How little space exists between you. How long he’s gone without answering. But before either of you can say anything else—
Your brother’s voice cuts through the air. Loud. Careless. “Yo, they’ve got free nachos at the bar!”
And just like that, it breaks.
You flinch back. Anakin’s already standing, too fast, hands shoved into the pockets of his hoodie like it’ll hide the tension coiled through his entire body. You don’t say anything more. Neither does he. But he doesn’t follow your brother toward the lobby, not yet.
And you don’t meet his eyes again for the rest of the night.
The pool’s supposed to be closed.
You know that. The sign says 9PM in big block letters, and it’s well past midnight. But no one’s around. No front desk staff. No other guests. Just you—curled up in a hoodie and shorts in one of the plastic lounge chairs, knees tucked to your chest, chin resting on the fabric.
The night air is cool and still, the kind of quiet that makes every little sound feel loud. The pool lights glow faint blue under the surface, the ripples catch the light just right, dancing up the walls and ceiling like living glass. It’s peaceful. Hypnotic. You’ve been staring at it forever, just watching the little waves flicker against the sides. Watching the way light bends in water. Watching how beautiful something can look when it’s just barely still.
You’re not sure how long you’ve been back out here when the door creaks. You glance over your shoulder—and there he is.
Anakin steps through the pool's gate, not even surprised to see you. Like he knew (maybe even hoped) you’d be here. He’s wearing sweatpants and a t-shirt, hair messy, posture loose. There's something about him that always seems half-tensed, never fully at rest. Like he’s always bracing for something.
“Thought I’d find you here,” he says.
You blink at him. “You’re psychic now?”
“No,” he says. “Just observant. You’ve been slipping away every night since we got here.”
You shrug. “It’s quiet.”
He walks over and drops into the chair next to you without asking. “It’s also not allowed.”
“That’s your problem,” you say, smiling faintly. “You always follow the rules.”
Anakin snorts. “You serious? You know how many rules I’ve broken just this week?”
You glance at him, and something about the curve of his mouth makes your stomach twist. He looks different in this lighting. Softer. More real. Like someone you’re not supposed to see this way. Someone who was never meant to be a secret.
You hesitate, then ask, “Why’d you come out here?”
He doesn’t answer right away. Just leans back, looking at the water.
“I guess I wanted to make sure you weren’t in a closet again,” he says.
You roll your eyes. “That was weeks ago.”
“And yet,” he mutters, “I think about it every other night now.”
You don’t know what to say to that. So you sit in the quiet. The silence stretches, but it’s not awkward.
It’s charged.
The two of you have existed like this before—like you’re in the same orbit but different galaxies. Like you only ever get glimpses when the angle’s just right. And lately? The angle’s been right a lot more often.
“I used to think you didn’t like me,” you say, voice low.
Anakin turns in surprise to look at you, brow quirked. “What made you think that?”
“You were always… polite. Almost friendly but never just quite. I was just the dumb little sister. Always in the way.”
He furrows his brow. “You weren’t really in the way.”
You look back at the water. “I mean, you just never really saw me, I guess—or something I don't know,” You trail off, mumbling and embarrassed.
There’s a pause. An acknowledgement. A consideration.
“I see you now,” he says, finally landing on the right thing to say. Because you were right. Maybe he looked at you without actually seeing you. But it seems like that's all he's been doing these days—seeing you— and it's consuming his entire mind.
Something stutters in your chest.
You don’t know what to do with that. With the way he says it. With the fact that you believe him. How could he not mean it when he's looking at you like this? The pool lights made his eyes look even more stunning. Magical, even.
You look at him again—and he’s looking at you in a way that makes the air feel stifling. Makes the whole world tilt just a little. Like maybe he’s been seeing you like this for a lot longer than you realized now, and maybe he’s just as scared of what it means.
You break eye contact first and clear your throat.
Then, like it’s nothing, like you’re not about to blow the night wide open, you say: “Let’s go swimming.”
Anakin blinks. “It’s closed.”
“So?”
“So that’s illegal.”
You smile. “Thought you didn’t follow the rules.”
“I didn’t say that. I said I break them sometimes. With reason.”
“This is a reason.”
He scoffs, crossing his arms. “What reason?”
“Because I want to.”
He opens his mouth to argue—but you’re already pulling your hoodie off.
Underneath, you’ve just got on your underwear and the tank top you slept in. Nothing scandalous. No different than a swimsuit, really. But the second the hoodie’s off, something in the air shifts.
Anakin’s eyes catch on you. Not completely in a checking-you-out kind of way—at least not at first. More like he’s trying to figure out when this started. When you became someone he had to look away from. Someone he couldn't just file under little sister energy anymore.
“You coming?” you ask, standing up.
He doesn’t move.
Then—“You’re insane.”
You smirk. “Scared?”
He shakes his head once, slow. But he still doesn’t stand.
You raise a brow, teasing. “You know, I always thought you were cooler than this.”
That gets him.
He sighs—long, slow, resigned—and mutters something under his breath that sounds like a curse. Then he pulls off his shirt, kicks off his sweats, and stalks toward the pool.
You try not to react to the sight of him like that—bare-chested, jaw tight, black boxer briefs clinging to his thighs like sin, muscles tense like he’s fighting every instinct he has.
You fail. Spectacularly.
The water’s cold but not unbearable. You slip in first, body shivering from the initial shock, but it feels good—refreshing, almost electric. The surface breaks with a soft splash as you sink in.
Anakin hesitates at the edge for a beat too long. Then he’s in the water too.
At first, you stay on opposite ends. He’s quiet, leaning against the wall like he’s not sure what to do with himself.
You splash water at him.
He blinks at you. “Are you five?”
You grin. “Maybe.”
But you’re moving closer.
One minute, you’re laughing. Next, the space between you shrinks until there’s nothing but water and tension. You’re not touching—but it would take practically nothing to change that.
“You always do this?” he murmurs.
You tilt your head. “Do what?”
“Pull people into pools after hours. Tempt them into getting arrested.”
“Only the special ones.”
He doesn’t laugh. He just watches you. Eyes steady. Breath shallow.
This moment—right now—it shouldn’t be happening. But it is. It’s happening and it’s real and neither of you moves to stop it.
You reach out, barely brushing his wrist under the water.
He freezes.
Your voice is quieter now. “You look like you’re about to say something.”
“Maybe I am.”
“Then say it.”
The water ripples gently between you, glowing with that otherworldly blue that makes everything feel faraway and too close all at once. Moonlight slides off your shoulders, casting silver over skin and shadow into every soft dip of your frame.
You’re face to face now. Nowhere to look but at each other.
And Anakin’s sure—positive, actually—that if he breathes wrong, he'll do something he'll regret. That if he says what he really wants to say, there’s no pulling back. No walking away. No playing the older brother’s friend who only ever saw you as a kid in pajamas and messy hair.
Because you don’t look like that now.
Now you’re here, soaked to the skin, lips parted, waiting. And he realizes, with a dizzy sort of clarity, that this isn’t the first time he’s looked at you this way—it’s just the first time he let himself notice.
He doesn’t even think when his hand moves.
Just reaches out and brushes your cheekbone with the backs of his fingers, slow and deliberate. Water beads there—dripping down from your hairline, collecting in a trail along your jaw. He catches one with his thumb. Wipes it away like it makes a difference.
It doesn’t. The water’s everywhere.
You’re barely breathing now, staring up at him with a look that should be illegal—wide-eyed and unreadable, soft-lipped and too still. A look that dares him to keep going.
A look that says I want you to.
And Anakin—Anakin fucking Skywalker, who’s supposed to be your brother’s best friend, supposed to know better, supposed to treat you like you’re just a kid in his periphery—he’s starting to realize that the only thing holding him back right now is how much he knows this would ruin him.
“You’re really pretty too,” he says—quiet, raw, reverent.
It’s not smooth. It’s not clever. It’s not even the full truth—pretty isn’t the word for you right now.
Your brows twitch upward—surprised. But you don’t laugh. You don’t tease.
You just say, soft and steady, “Too?”
His lips part. That was the mistake. He walked straight into it.
You remember.
You remember the night. The drunken words. The messy bedroom and his careful hands and the tension that was thick then, but manageable. Containable.
It isn’t now.
Now it wraps around the two of you like a current, buzzing and electric and pulling you closer with every second you hold eye contact.
He opens his mouth—maybe to deny it, maybe to say your name—but the words tangle on his tongue. His thumb brushes down, catches the edge of your mouth. A thoughtless motion. Painfully careful.
His breath shudders. It’s involuntary.
You smile, slow and dangerous. “So you do remember.”
“I remember everything,” he says. It’s not a boast. It’s not even a confession. It’s a warning. "I was the sober one, remember?"
You tilt your head just slightly into his palm.
It’s nothing.
It’s everything.
Anakin's thumb brushes up and down your jaw like it's second nature.
Your voice is quieter than it’s ever been.
“Then why haven’t you done anything about it?”
He pulls in a breath like he’s about to lose his mind.
“You don’t want me to answer that,” he says, voice sharp and thick with restraint. “Not when you’re this close.”
“Try me.”
He stares at you. Really stares.
And for one second—just one—he does lean in. Enough to skim his nose along yours. Enough to make your lips part, your breath hitch, your body freeze. You can feel his breath against your mouth.
But he stops just short.
Just enough to not kiss you. Just enough to leave you wanting.
Just enough to save himself.
His eyes flutter shut, jaw clenched so tight it aches. And when he pulls back, it’s not gentle. It’s like ripping teeth out.
“Get out of the pool,” he says, rough. “Before I do something stupid.”
You blink. Your heartbeat's in your mouth. Your whole body electric. But you feel like you’ve won. Because something just changed. And you both felt it.
Even if he walked away. Even if he didn’t kiss you. Even if he told you to get out—
He saw you.
He saw you.
You affected him, and that makes your heart soar
-
The next night the hotel hosts a "family mixer" on the private beach. It’s low-effort—cheap tiki torches, a few fold-out tables, and a firepit dug into the sand surrounded by lawn chairs. There’s music playing from someone's Bluetooth speaker. S’mores kits. Cold sodas. Half of the parents have already gone back to their rooms. Just older teens and twenty-somethings lingering, laughing.
You show up late, barefoot, the sleeves of your hoodie pulled over your hands, legs still damp from rinsing off the afternoon pool chlorine. You weren’t going to come. But your brother texted “everyone’s here. don’t be lame.”
You’re not here for “everyone.” But you pretend you are.
Anakin’s already there. Of course he is.
He’s leaned against the backrest of a half-buried beach lounger, one foot in the sand, Solo cup in hand, talking to your brother and two girls who you swear keep finding excuses to laugh too loudly. His profile is sharp in the firelight—strong jaw, loose hair falling into his face, a smirk that doesn’t quite reach his eyes.
He looks good. Too good.
You swallow it down and find a place on the other side of the fire.
He’s angled toward your brother, who’s talking fast and grinning, probably reliving some dumb surfboard fail.
Anakin’s not really listening, he's preoccupied.
You don’t even notice him watching.
You’re too busy standing near the firepit, laughing at something Caleb said—no, not your cousin Caleb, the tall guy from Room 308 with the faded tattoo and the vague I-play-guitar energy. He’s not your type. He talks too much. But he’s cute enough in the dark, and there’s something kind of freeing about letting someone else look at you that way for once. Someone you’re allowed to flirt with.
Anakin hasn’t said a word to you since you arrived. Barely looked your way since your little night swim yesterday. And maybe that shouldn’t bother you. But it does.
You smile more than you mean to. Let the conversation linger. Caleb offers to grab you another soda, and you nod. When he comes back, he sits close. Too close.
Anakin doesn’t move.
Caleb is louder than he needs to be. Keeps cracking jokes that land halfway. You genuinely laugh at some of them. And when he invites you to walk “a little further down the beach to see the stars,” you agree before you think better of it. You’re not even sure why.
Caleb leads you down the beach just far enough that the sound of the fire pit fades into the wind and the shush of waves against the shore. There’s no one else out here. Just dark, and sand, and the soft flicker of light in the far distance behind you.
You sit on an overturned canoe. Caleb sits beside you—closer than necessary.
He talks about stars at first. Sort of.
Really, he talks about LA. And his band. And the internship he’s totally about to land if his uncle pulls some strings. He uses words like “manifestation” and “alchemy” in the same breath. Calls you “introspective” because you said you like books. Looks at your legs when he thinks you’re not paying attention.
You let him talk. It’s not like you have anything better to do. And maybe… maybe part of you likes that someone sees you.
Not as your brother’s sister. Not as background noise to a video game lobby. But as something singular. Present. Desired. Even if he’s not great at hiding the way his hand keeps inching closer to your knee with every new topic.
“So what’s your deal?” Caleb asks eventually, leaning back on his elbows. “You’ve got, like, mystery girl energy.”
You snort. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“You’re quiet, but not in a bad way. I bet you think a lot. Bet you’re one of those people who feels everything.”
You raise an eyebrow. “That’s… a line.”
He grins. “But it’s working, right?”
You don’t answer.
His hand brushes your thigh again. This time it lingers. Not forceful. Not terrible. But enough to make your shoulders go tight, and your stomach twist just a little. You shift. Scoot away.
Caleb notices—but doesn’t back off. Instead, he laughs under his breath and leans toward you.
“I mean, come on. We’re both here. The vibes are good. You’re looking at me like you want something.”
“I wasn’t—” you start.
And then—
“Hey.”
One word. Low. Cutting.
You twist toward the voice before your brain can catch up.
Anakin.
Standing just a few feet away, tall and furious-looking, jaw flexing hard enough to crack.
Caleb straightens, confused. “What?”
Anakin doesn’t answer him. His eyes are locked on you. And when he speaks again, it’s to you.
“Get up.”
You blink. “What—?”
“You’re leaving. Now.”
There’s no room for argument in his voice.
Caleb laughs like it’s a joke. “Dude, chill. We’re just talking.”
Anakin doesn’t even look at him. “She doesn’t want to be here.”
Caleb frowns, finally bristling. “She didn’t say that.”
“I don’t need her to,” Anakin says, voice dark. “I can see it all over her face.”
You’re still frozen, trying to process how fast this has flipped.
Caleb pushes up to his feet, half-defensive. “Look, I don’t know who the fuck you are, but—”
“I’m the one telling you to back off,” Anakin snaps, stepping in. “Right now.”
Caleb squares up, posture stiffening like he’s going to do something about it—but one look at Anakin’s face, and he falters.
Whatever he sees there makes him hesitate.
Good call.
Anakin’s always had this quiet rage in him, the kind that doesn’t scream—it just waits for permission to act. This? Might’ve been that permission.
You stand up—quickly.
Caleb mutters something behind you. Something like, “She can speak for herself, you know.”
But Anakin’s already putting a hand on your arm and steering you away, fast. His grip isn’t tight, but it’s not gentle either. Like he’s still trying to calm down. Like every muscle in his body is on high alert.
He doesn’t say a word until you’re almost back to the firelight. Then, without looking at you, he mutters, “You really think that guy wanted to stargaze with you?”
You don’t answer. He exhales hard, shaking his head.
“He just wanted to screw you,” he snaps. “That was his whole game.”
Your mouth falls open, scoffing, stunned, and slightly offended.
“Jesus, Anakin—”
“He had you half undressed in his head before you even said yes.”
“That’s not fair—”
“It’s not about fair,” he bites out. “It’s about obvious. He was waiting for you to say yes to something you didn’t want just so he could say it wasn’t his fault.”
You stop walking. Anakin keeps going another step—then realizes you’re not beside him anymore. He turns.
The wind tousles his hair, firelight flickering against the edge of his jaw. His eyes are wild, stormy, tired.
“You didn’t have to come out there,” you say, arms crossed. “You didn’t have to drag me away like some—some overprotective boyfriend.”
He flinches like you slapped him.
“I’m not,” he grits. “I’m mad because you deserve better than assholes who think ‘you’re quiet’ is a personality trait.”
The air goes still. Neither of you speaks.
Then, quieter now—tired, almost broken—he says, “And I’m mad because I should’ve come over before you went with him.”
And then he turns, walking ahead, back toward the flickering firelight. Hands clenched. Shoulders taut. Leaving you alone with your volatile feelings that you just can't control anymore.
The room is quiet when you get back.
You shut the door behind you harder than you mean to. Lock it. Drop your hoodie onto the floor and kick off your sandals with more force than necessary. The air conditioner hums. Somewhere down the hallway, someone’s laughing too loud, but it might as well be underwater.
You stand there for a moment, hoodie half-off your shoulder, staring blankly at the hotel art on the wall. Something abstract. Meaningless. You tug the sleeves off and drop the hoodie in a pile by the door. Your sandals come off next, kicked in an afterthought.
You sit on the edge of the bed, elbows on your knees, staring at the floor. Mabe you're searching the ugly carpet for answers. Maybe you're just thinking about how ugly it is.
Your skin still feels warm from the firepit. Your mouth is dry from the soda you didn’t finish. Your stomach is twisted in a way that has nothing to do with sugar.
You’re not sure what just happened. Or—maybe you are. Maybe you just don’t know what it meant.
Anakin’s voice still rings in your ears.
“He just wanted to screw you.”
You hear the way he said it. Flat, bitter, like it tasted awful just to let it pass through his mouth. Like it was personal. Like you were his to defend. But he’s not yours. He can’t be. But God, do you want him to be. You're dragging your hands down your face and groaning when it comes.
A knock.
Sharp. Brief.
You freeze.
Your heart lifts without permission. You already know who you’re hoping it is. You pull yourself together in two seconds flat, crossing the room and unlocking the door, half-trying to keep your expression neutral even as your chest tightens.
You open it.
...It’s your brother.
“…Oh.”
He frowns. “Wow. That’s a warm welcome.”
“No—sorry. I just thought—” You shake your head. “Doesn’t matter. What’s up?”
He steps inside without waiting for an invitation, eyes scanning the room like he’s checking for ghosts. Or maybe just Anakin.
“Just wanted to see if you were good.”
You hesitate. “Yeah. Fine.”
He doesn’t believe you, obviously. But he doesn’t push either. He flops onto the other bed, arms behind his head, and lets out a long breath. “That Caleb guy's a douche.”
You sit across from him on the edge of the mattress. “Yeah. I got that.”
“Anakin almost decked him.”
“Jesus.”
“Not even joking. He was one second from swinging. I’ve never seen him like that.”
You glance at the wall, pulse tightening. Your brother looks at you a moment. Then—softer—he says, “You know, I used to think it was funny. You getting all flustered when he was around.”
You go still. “What?”
“Don’t act like you didn’t have a crush on him in high school. It was obvious.”
You glare. “Thanks.”
He shrugs. “I just thought it’d pass. Thought he’d always just be my dumb best friend to you.”
You wait. “But?”
“But lately… I don’t know. Something’s different. With you. With him. You’ve both been weird since we got here.”
You stay quiet.
He sits up, rubbing the back of his neck. “I’m not trying to freak out or get all big-brother about it. You’re adults. He’s just always been—mine, you know? Not like a possession, just—he was always my—and now…”
He trails off. Doesn’t finish the thought.
You don’t ask him to.
He gets up a second later. “Anyway. I’m not gonna be a dick about it. I trust you. I just... don’t want you to get hurt.”
Your throat tightens. “Thanks.”
He walks toward the door. Then pauses, hand on the knob.
“Also, uh—next time you sneak off to flirt with a walking SoundCloud account, maybe text someone first? Just so we know you’re alive?”
You throw a pillow at him. He laughs, dodges, and steps out into the hallway, shutting the door behind him. You sigh and fall back onto the bed.
The second your head hits the pillow—
Another knock.
You groan as you get up and trek back across the room. “Oh my god, I literally just told you—”
You yank the door open, and it's not your brother.
It’s Anakin.
You stop mid-sentence. “—not to...”
And then you just blink.
He’s standing there barefoot, his sweater half-zipped, hair still tousled from the wind. There's a tightness in his jaw like he’s been pacing outside your room for twenty minutes, debating whether to knock or not. He looks at you like he wasn’t sure you’d open the door. Like he’s glad you did.
“…Hi,” he says.
You don’t say anything at first.
Then, finally: “If you’d knocked one second earlier, you’d have caught my brother in here.”
“Oh,” he says. “Should I… not be here?”
“No. I mean—yeah. You can—” You step aside before you can overthink it. “Come in.”
He walks in slowly, hands shoved in his pockets. You shut the door behind him. Silence falls like a blanket over the room. He doesn’t sit. He just turns to face you. Still tense. Still unreadable.
“I didn’t come to fight,” he says finally.
You fold your arms. “Could’ve fooled me back there.”
He sharply inhales a little.
“I’m not sorry for pulling you away,” he says. "I didn’t mean to make you feel like I was… I don’t know. Owning you or something.”
You look at him. “Then what were you doing?”
He’s quiet for a second.
Then: “Losing my mind, apparently.”
You blink.
“I saw him sitting that close and—” He stops. Runs a hand through his hair. “I knew what he was trying to do. And I couldn’t fucking stand it.”
You swallow hard. He looks at you now—really looks.
“You’re not some stranger, okay? You’re not just someone I pass in the hallway anymore. You haven’t been for a long time.”
Your pulse thrums. You don’t know what to say to that.
So you just whisper, “You’re not either.” And he takes a slow step toward you.
Then another.
Your breath catches.
The air between you stretches—dense, electric, pulsing with everything said and unsaid. You don’t back away. Don’t shift. Don’t smile. You just watch him, eyes wide, shoulders squared like you’re bracing for a wave. Something crashing.
Anakin stops a foot from you.
Close enough to reach. Close enough to touch. Close enough that you can see every flicker in his pretty eyes—uncertainty, restraint, something deeper boiling just beneath the surface.
He doesn’t touch you. Not yet.
He just looks at you, trying to memorize the exact way you’re standing. The shape of you in this moment. Something about it must be important to him.
“I wasn’t supposed to feel like this,” he says quietly.
The words are heavy between you.
Your voice is a whisper as you jump to a hopeful assumption. “But you do? Feel something—I mean.”
He nods, just barely.
“I do.”
He finally lifts a hand—slow, careful—and brushes his knuckles down your arm, from your elbow to your wrist. A soft, shivering kind of contact, he’s still asking permission even as he’s already touching you. Your skin warms under the trail.
Your pulse jumps. “Why didn’t you say anything?”
“Because I wasn’t supposed to feel it. Not for you. Not like... this.” He lets out a breath, ragged and short. “I kept telling myself you were off-limits. That it’d pass. That I’d look at you one day and see the girl across the hall again.”
His fingers gently wrap around your wrist now, and you don't pull away.
“I haven’t seen her in a long time,” he adds.
Your throat tightens.
“I thought it was just me,” you murmur. “Thought I was being ridiculous—wanting something impossible.”
He tilts his head, eyes softening. “It’s not impossible.”
“But it feels that way. Doesn’t it?”
Anakin doesn’t answer right away. He glances down at your joined hands—because somewhere in all of this, your fingers found his. Neither of you remembers how. But you’re holding on now. Threaded together like you belong there.
When he looks back up, there’s a softness in his expression that borders on devastating.
“It shouldn’t,” he says. “Not when it’s this easy.”
You blink. “This is easy?”
“Being around you is,” he says. “Not wanting more is the hard part.”
You laugh quietly in disbelief. “So, you have been fighting it.”
“Every second.”
The confession hits in a cool wave of relief. A breath held too long, finally let out. You stare up at him, and this time, it’s you who steps forward. Close enough that your chest brushes against him. Close enough to feel the shift in his breath. Close enough that you wonder if he can feel you trembling.
“You’re not going to kiss me, are you?” you ask, low and daring.
He shakes his head slowly. “Not tonight.”
Your heart droops in fleeting disappointment. “Why not?”
“Because if I do…” His eyes flit down to your mouth, back up, to your eyes, and then down again. “I won’t stop.”
You don’t move.
“You want to stop?” you whisper.
His forehead presses to yours, his breathing wrecked. He’s so close. So warm. Just barely holding still.
“No,” he whines—raw and guttural, the sound rips straight from his throat like he hates himself for even saying it.
He doesn’t wait any longer. Doesn’t ask. Doesn’t even think.
Anakin grabs you, hands fisting in your hair, pulling you in like it’s instinct. Like he’s starved. Like he’s been dying of thirst and just now remembered your mouth is the only thing that’s ever satiated him.
And he kisses you.
Hard. Rough. Devastating.
It crashes over you like a wave too big to stand under. Lips crushed against his, teeth dragging, breath stolen. His grip is fierce, almost punishing—cause if he doesn’t hold you like this, you might disappear. And he’ll lose the one thing he hasn’t let himself want out loud until now.
Your back hits the wall behind you, the wood cold against your spine, but you barely feel it. All you can feel is him. His body flush to yours, his hands possessive, mouth bruising as it moves over yours like he’s been waiting years for this—because he has.
And god, it shows.
He takes like a man at the end of his rope. No finesse. No strategy. Just hungry, desperate need.
The kiss breaks for half a second, just enough for him to breathe, and when he does, he pants against your lips, forehead still pressed to yours, eyes blown wide with disbelief and desire.
“I can’t stop,” he mutters, voice hoarse, bottom lip trembling. “I should—but I fucking can’t.”
"Then don't," you breathe out.
You kiss him again. Just as sloppy, just as starved. You're starving for one thing and it's always been him.
He groans into your mouth, low and strangled—the vibration travels through you straight to your core, spurring you on. One hand drops to your waist, gripping hard, dragging you against him so you can feel just how much he means it. So that you can both relieve the ache you're undeniably feeling. His hips press into yours, and it’s dizzying—the heat, the feel of his clothed erection, the years of pretending there was nothing under the surface.
The friction is euphoric. So mind-numbing you find yourself grinding against him harder and harder, chasing that high like a dog. Anakin breaks the kiss and trails down your jaw to find purchase on your neck, sucking and biting.
Claiming.
"Slow down," he chuckles warmly against your throat. "Don't wanna' go too fast."
He chokes as your hand suddenly snakes down to grab a firm hold of his hard crotch. Your eyes are half-lidded, dripping with lust as they look into Anakin's.
"I can't go fast enough," you whisper.
There's a beat of silence. A singular second of burning, mingling breath and pounding hearts.
And a tether snaps.
You're ripped from the ground like you're weightless. Your thighs wrap around Anakin's torso instinctively, and his hands grip your ass as he carries you across the room. In seconds, your back hits the plush sheets of the bed. You bounce once—breathless—before Anakin is on top of you, arms caging you in.
He barely gives you enough time to breathe before his mouth is smothering yours once more, like he couldn't stand being apart for a millisecond. Lips, tongue, and teeth. Swallowing you whole, conquering. Nothing about this or him is soft—gentle.
His tongue invades your mouth, tasting all of you. The hunger inside him is insatiable, a wild beast clawing its way out. His hands roam your body, taking no time exploring the dips and valleys of your frame. His fingers dig into your flesh, nails pressing into your skin. The sensation sends sparks shooting down your spine and you arch further into Anakin, igniting a fire in him.
You moan into his mouth, arching your back to push your torso completely against his. Your nipples strain against the thin fabric of your top, aching to be touched. You reach between your bodies, grabbing his cock through his pants. It twitches eagerly beneath your palm, and you give it a firm squeeze.
"You want me?" You pant against his lips. "Then take me."
A groan rumbles deep in his chest as he feels your hand grasp his length. His hips jerk involuntarily, seeking more friction. He rests his sweat-slicked forehead against yours, eyes squeezed like he's in pain.
"You're—" he manages through heavy breaths, "—You're supposed to tell me to stop."
Your eyes glimmer with mischief and wonder, your mouth gently hanging open as you take in his beautifully wrecked expression. Your hand finds purchase on the back of Anakin's neck as you whisper with a little too much amusement—
"Now, why would I do a silly little thing like that?"
You yank him back in, smashing his lips onto yours again, kissing his with an intensity that steals the air from your lungs. His hands fumble with the hem of your shirt, desperate to get to the smooth skin underneath. When he finally succeeds, he pulls the garment off your arms and tosses it aside carelessly. His eyes rake over your exposed breasts, drinking in the sight like a parched man
"So fucking perfect," he breathes, cupping a mound in his large hand.
He rolls the hardened peak of your nipple between his thumb and forefinger, sending jolts of pleasure crackling through your body. Leaning down, he takes the other nipple into his mouth, swirling his tongue around it teasingly.
A moan shudders out of you, and your back arches off the bed with the tingling sensation. Your nails dig slightly into his flesh, and it seems to ignite something primal in him. His lips release you with a wet sound. He steals a hard, claiming kiss from your mouth a last time—rough, wet, quick—before he's kissing down your sternum, between your breasts. Down, down, down, he trails.
You look down to meet his beautiful blue eyes. How could they look so innocent while his mouth teased at the waistband of your shorts? He starts to pull at them with his teeth, but he looks up at you, brows raised, eyes asking for permission.
You nod breathlessly, and he wastes no time in pulling them down until you're left in your underwear. Plain-Jane gray cotton. You didn't expect anyone but yourself to be seeing them. Let alone Anakin.
Your face flushes and you open your mouth, but before you even have time to be embarrassed, Anakin's tongue swipes across your clothed sex.
A gasp slips from your mouth, your hips bucking upward reflexively. He hums against your dampening core, the vibrations traveling straight to your clit. His hands grip your fleshy thighs, spreading them wider as he dives in deeper. He laps at you through the damp fabric, savoring your flavor. Then, hooking his fingers into the sides of your panties, he drags them down your legs slowly, revealing you to his hungry eyes.
Anakin's gaze lingers on your most intimate area—taking in every detail—but you don't shrivel underneath it. You flourish. His thumbs rub soothingly into the flesh of your thighs. His grip is firm but soft—maybe loving. You don't just feel lusted for, but you feel cared for
Seen.
And that excites you more than anything else.
Slowly, reverently, he lowers his head and presses a tender kiss to your clit. Then another. And another. Each one sends shockwaves of pleasure through your body. Your hands fly to his hair, tangling in the dark locks as you try to steady yourself against the onslaught of sensations. You can't remember the last time someone worshipped your body like this, with such care and adoration.
Anakin's tongue flicks out, tracing the sensitive bundle of nerves before he sucks it gently between his lips. The combination of the warmth of his mouth and the suction has you seeing stars. Your hips roll against his face, seeking more friction, more pressure.
"Please," you whimper, not even sure what you're begging for anymore. More of his touch, certainly. But also… something else. Something deeper.
As if sensing your desperation, Anakin slides two long fingers into your dripping cunt, and you cry out. His digits curve inward as he sets a deadly pace, stroking that spot inside you that makes your stomach clench. His name leaves your lips in a broken plea. His entire forearm moves at a sickeningly pleasurable speed. Back and forth and back and forth, leaving filthy slick sounds in its wake. He doesn't miss a beat, fingers curling perfectly inside you as he continues to work your clit with his tongue. Anakin moans into you, vibrating your entire body as he pumps his fingers. His free hand reaches up to thumb your clit, adding another layer to the overwhelming sensations.
You're gasping and writhing in his grasp, it's taking every last shred of your strength to contain yourself. To not scream and cry out and let everyone in the whole world know just how good Anakin Skywalker is fucking you with his mouth right now.
He watches your face as he works, eyes locked on your reactions. He wants to see everything—every twitch, every gasp, every tear rolling down your cheek.
You're rocking back and forth on his hand as your back bows off the bed, legs shaking as Anakin’s tongue works relentlessly around your clit. His fingers drive deeper, curling just right, hitting that sweet, sweet spot, blurring your vision.
“Fuck—Ani—I’m close,” you whine, squeezing your watering eyes shut, thighs clamping around his head.
The moment the words leave your lips, Anakin’s grip tightens. His fingers plunge deeper, fucking you with brutal precision while his tongue flicks your clit in quick, merciless strokes. The pressure builds like a storm. Too fast, too intense, until you’re arching so high off the bed, gasping his name. His free hand clamps over your hip, pinning you in place as he moans wetly against your skin, his breath scalding hot.
“You 'gonna come for me, beautiful?” he muffles from between your legs.
You nod frantically, nails raking up his back as pleasure coils tighter, threatening to snap and utterly break you apart.
And then, your orgasm tears through you like a live wire.
Violent, merciless, lighting every nerve ending on fire. You arch off the mattress with a choked scream, fingers clawing at the sheets, thighs trembling around Anakin’s head as he drinks you in, relentless, sucking your clit through the aftershocks until you’re damn near sobbing from oversensitivity.
He finally pulls back, lips glistening, chest heaving. The sight of him- flushed, wrecked, pupils blown black- sends another jolt of heat straight to your trembling core. His thumb brushes your cheek, wiping away the tears from your lashes. His voice is wrecked but gentle.
"Still with me?"
You let out a breathless laugh, fingers tracing the sharp line of his jaw.
"Try getting rid of me now."
Anakin's grin is feral. He grabs your wrists, pinning them above your head as he leans down to nip at your throat.
"Good." His free hand yanks at his belt, the leather whipping free with a sharp snap. Fabric rasps as he shoves his pants down just enough to free his cock—thick, flushed, veins straining. You bite your lip at the sight, and he growls, pressing the head against your soaked folds. "Look at you," he murmurs, dragging the tip through your slick, coating himself. "Already dripping again." You whimper, hips lifting, seeking more. He chuckles darkly but doesn't give in yet. Instead, he leans closer, his breath hot against your ear. "Tell me you want it."
"Anakin—" His teeth graze your earlobe.
"Say it, pretty girl."
"I want you inside me," you gasp. "Now."
He pushes in—slow, careful, stretching you perfectly, whimpering as he does it. Your back arches, nails biting into his shoulders as he fills you inch by inch. The stretch burns just enough to make your toes curl.
"Fuck," he moans, forehead dropping to yours. "You feel..." You swallow his words with a kiss, rocking your hips to take him deeper. His control snaps. Hands gripping your thighs, he drags you down onto him with a deep, slow thrust. The slap of skin echoes as he sets a quicker pace, each snap of his hips driving him deeper. His mouth finds your neck, sucking bruises into your skin between ragged breaths.
"Harder," you beg, legs locking around his waist.
And he obeys, pounding into you with enough force to shake the bed. Every thrust hits that sweet spot, drawing broken moans from your throat. His fingers tangle in your hair, tilting your head back to claim your mouth again, swallowing every sound.
Anakin’s thrusts are deep, unforgiving, his hips slamming into you with a force that knocks the breath from your lungs. Your fingers claw at his back, nails biting into his skin as you arch into each punishing stroke. His rhythm is relentless, the bed creaking beneath you, sweat-slick skin sliding together with filthy, wet sounds. But then—he slows. His forehead presses to yours, his breath ragged, blue eyes locked onto you with an intensity that burns hotter than any physical touch. The shift is dizzying. His next thrust is deliberate, deep, his cock dragging against your walls in a way that makes you gasp. He holds himself there, buried inside you, muscles trembling.
“Look at me,” he rasps.
But you're long gone, thrown back so deep into the pillow you can hardly hear anything but the sickly sweet sounds of him sliding in and out of you.
"I said look at me," he grunts, sharply thrusting into you once more and taking hold of your jaw to force your face to him.
You look. His pupils are blown, his lips parted, every ragged breath whispering over your mouth. The connection is electric—more intimate than anything you've ever felt before. His hips roll, grinding deeper, drawing a broken moan from your throat.
Your eyes lock onto his, the world narrowing to just this—his gaze piercing through you, raw and unyielding. Anakin's hand stays firm on your jaw, thumb brushing your lower lip as he holds you there, refusing to let you drift away. His cock throbs inside you, thick and unyielding, every slow grind sending sparks up your spine. You clench around him instinctively, and a low growl rumbles from his chest, vibrating against your skin.
"That's it," he murmurs, voice rough like gravel, his free hand sliding down to grip your hip once again, fingers probably digging in hard enough to leave marks. He pulls back just enough to thrust forward again, intentional and deep, his length stretching you wide, filling every inch until you feel him everywhere. The pressure builds, coiling tight in your core, your body arching to meet him despite the overwhelming intensity.
"Tell me how it feels," he demands, voice husky as he rocks into you again, the wet slide of his cock pulling a shudder from your frame. Your nails rake down his back, leaving red trails, and he groans pleasurably in response, the sound fueling the fire. He shifts his weight, angling deeper, hitting that perfect spot that makes stars burst behind your eyelids—but you keep your eyes on his, trapped in that blue storm.
The intimacy of it all crashes over you like a wave, his dominance not just in the way he fucks you, but in how he claims every part of you, body and soul. His pace quickens just a fraction, thrusts turning sharper, his grip on your jaw loosening to burrow in your hair instead, tugging lightly to keep your gaze pinned.
"I'm yours," he breathes, the words punctuating another deep plunge, his balls slapping against your ass with the force of it. The bed groans under the strain, but nothing matters beyond this connection, this raw hunger binding you together.
Your legs tighten around him, heels digging into his thighs, urging him on even as your body trembles on the edge. He senses it, feels the way you flutter around him, and his eyes darken further, a predatory gleam flashing through. Leaning down, he finally captures your mouth in a bruising kiss, tongue thrusting in time with his hips, devouring your moans as he drives you higher, relentless and consuming.
And for a brief moment, through all the perfect chaos, you think you could stay like this with him all night.
Forever even.
You find yourself nestled in Anakin’s arms. His heartbeat has long since slowed, his breathing evened out, but he doesn’t move. You can feel the weight of him, the warmth, the solid reassurance of his presence. It wraps around you in a way that feels unreal—too good, already familiar. It's something you’ve missed more than you ever realized you could. But how could you miss something you've only dreamed of having?
“Ani?” you murmur, nudging him gently.
He hums in response, half-asleep, rolling onto his back and pulling you with him without thinking. You follow easily, curling into his side, your fingers tracing slow, lazy circles across his chest. His skin is warm beneath your touch.
“I can’t believe we just did that,” you whisper with a giggle, the words slipping out before you can stop them.
A quiet chuckle rumbles beneath your hand. His fingers find yours, threading together like it’s second nature.
“Me neither,” he admits, eyes flicking down to you. “I never thought that this would…that you would…”
You tilt your head up, studying his face. He looks so beautiful like this—unguarded, stripped of the tension he so often carries.
“Was it worth the wait?” you ask softly.
His answer is immediate. He smiles, small and private, before pressing a lingering kiss to your forehead.
“Absolutely.” The word settles deep in your chest, warm and steady.
You smile despite yourself, nerves fluttering in your stomach. “So,” you breathe. “What now?”
Anakin exhales slowly, his thumb brushing circles over your knuckles.
“Now we stop pretending this didn’t happen,” he says. “Now we figure out what happens next.”
The room falls quiet again, filled only by the soft hum of the air conditioning. You lean in, pressing a gentle kiss to his chest, right over his heart. It stutters beneath your lips, betraying him.
“I’m scared,” you whisper.
He stiffens just slightly before shifting onto his side, fully facing you. His brow furrows as his fingers trace your jaw with careful attention. “Scared of what?”
“Us,” you admit. “What if this isn’t real? What if it fades? What if we hurt each other?”
He studies your face, eyes steady, serious.
“We’ll deal with it,” he says. “Together. I’m not saying it’ll be easy—but I’m not walking away.”
Your throat tightens.
“But am I really what you want?”
“What do—”
“My brother probably won’t approve,” you rush on. “And I’m just the stupid little sister across the hall, and maybe this was a lapse in judgment, and you’ll wake up tomorrow and regret it, and you’ll never talk to me again and—”
“Hey.” The firmness in his voice cuts through your spiraling thoughts. You stop short, startled, and meet his gaze—icy blue, intense, but softened now by something unmistakably sincere.
He opens his mouth, then closes it, visibly searching for the right words. “No,” he says again, quieter. “Listen to me.”
You nod, heart pounding, and settle closer to him, your head resting beneath his chin. His arm tightens around you, grounding you there. “I’ve spent most of my life pretending I didn’t feel things,” he admits. “Or that I could control them if I just thought hard enough. That wanting something meant I was going to ruin it.”
His thumb moves slowly along your arm. “But you were never something I could turn off,” he continues. “I noticed you long before I ever let myself admit it. I told myself it was off-limits. That it was easier not to want you than to risk hurting you.” His eyes finally meet yours.
“This wasn’t a mistake,” he says firmly. “It wasn’t a lapse in judgment.”
You shake your head weakly. “There’s no way—”
“No,” he interrupts gently. “I don’t wake up and forget things that matter to me. And you matter... you always have,” He confesses, just barely above a whisper.
Emotion swells in your chest, thick and overwhelming.
"Even if it’s complicated?” you ask. “Even if my brother loses his mind?”
A faint, crooked smile tugs at his mouth. “I’m not scared of complicated. And I can handle your brother.” His expression softens again. “What I can’t handle is pretending this didn’t mean something. Pretending you didn’t mean something.”
Silence stretches between you, but it’s no longer heavy. You rest your cheek over his heart, listening to its steady rhythm.
“Okay,” you resolve.
“Okay,” he echoes, pressing a kiss into your hair.
The night passes gently after that. You talk in low voices, sharing stories you never found the right moment for before. You speak about fears and hopes, about where you’ve been and where you’re afraid to go. Nothing feels rushed. Nothing feels hidden. At some point, exhaustion finally claims you.
When you wake again, pale morning light filters through the curtains. You’re still wrapped in each other, his arm secure around your waist.
“Still here,” he murmurs, voice thick with sleep. You smile, lacing your fingers with his once more.
“Yeah,” you whisper. “Me too.”
And for the first time, the thought of what comes next doesn’t feel frightening—it feels possible.