LUKE SKYWALKER knows how suffocatingly dull Tatooine can be. You know it too. Nothing ever happens here unless you go searching for it; out past the dunes where the sand swallows sound, inside the cantina where trouble lingers in every shadowed booth, maybe even around the hangars where ships come and go with lives far more interesting than yours. Thereās always been a restlessness in both of you, a quiet itch beneath the skin. Maybe thatās why you understand each other so well.
Luke is working, as alwaysāsunkissed, stubborn, and determined to keep the Lars homestead running. Youāve managed to carve out a few hours before you have to return to your own chores, and somehow your feet carry you here like they always do. After excusing yourself from Aunt Beruās warm company, you make your way toward the garage with a cup of water in hand.
Itās practically routine now. Luke doesnāt even look up when you step through the doorway. He doesnāt have to. He knows itās you. The rhythm of your steps, the way the door shifts on its hinges; itās instinct at this point.
āI canāt stand this heat,ā he complains, voice echoing faintly in the cramped space as he moves around in a restless blur. Heās digging through scattered parts, tools clanking against one another as he searches.
āThe speeder has thisāā he trails off, crouching to rummage through a lower shelf, metal scraping loudly. āāthis clicking sound,ā he finishes with a frustrated sigh when he comes up empty-handed.
āI donāt wanna hear it anymore. Not with this heat. And Iāve still gotta check on one of the vaporatorsā¦ā His irritation spills out in uneven bursts as he keeps searching.
You donāt answer right away, instead, you watch him.
Your gaze traces from the pale gold of his hair, damp and curling at the edges from sweat, down to the sheen glistening across his forehead. His brow is creased in concentration, jaw set tight with frustration. A bead of sweat trails down the strong line of his throat, disappearing beneath the collar of his tunic. The heat is getting to him. The twin suns always do. If he keeps working himself up like this, heāll overheat long before the day ends.
You step closer until thereās nowhere for him to move without brushing against you. The wall presses cool against his back, and you lift the cup to your lips, taking a slow sip for yourself. Only when he turns, mid-complaintādo you close the remaining space between you.
Your free hand slides up from the column of his neck, fingers threading into the soft blond strands at the back of his head. You tug him down just enough, and your mouths meet.
The water spills between you, warm from the heat of your bodies. It drips down chins and throats, darkening the fabric of his tunic in uneven patches. He makes a quiet soundāhalf surprise, half relief and then heās responding, swallowing instinctively. His tongue moves against yours, searching, chasing the last trace of coolness you offered him.
You feel the shift in him instantly. When thereās nothing left to taste but you, he doesnāt pull away. But you do, and you do it slowly.
A satisfied smile curves along your damp lips, and you swipe your tongue over the bottom one to collect what lingers there. Through lowered lashes, you study him.His chest rises and falls heavier now. You wonder if heās breathing like that because of the relentless Tatooine heat or because of you.
āWant more water?ā you ask softly. The question hangs between you, charged with something else entirely.Ā
A shiver of anticipation slides through you when he nods without hesitation, eyes darker than they were moments ago.
āPlease,ā Luke exhales, his voice is rough, unsteadyāneedy in a way that sends a thrill straight through you and suddenly, the heat doesnāt feel quite so unbearable anymore.
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