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They’re tangled up in a tight regulation bed in the barracks, legs twined, skin sweat-sticky. Obi-Wan’s eyes are closed—it’s always easier to shut them after coming, so that he doesn't get lost in staring. He can feel Anakin looking at him, though, tracing over the lines of his body like he is surveying for enemy scouts along a fire-scoured horizon. It’s uncomfortable. He shifts, feeling trapped in the sheets, his leg hair moving against the grain where his calf is trapped between Anakin’s ankles. He almost cracks an eye and says I can sense something is troubling you, Anakin, when he's beaten to the punch, just like always.
“You know what’s funny?” Anakin asks. Obi-Wan looks at him, and the moment their gazes lock, Anakin flushes, mouth twisting into a regretful shape as he turns away. “Never mind,” he says, shaking his head, so terribly lovely that Obi-Wan feels sick just looking at the sharp cut of his profile. “It’s too embarrassing.”
“Oh, come on now, that’s no fun,” Obi-Wan says. “What’s funny?”
Anakin cuts him an aching look, eyes wide, brow wincing. Stomach turning over, it occurs to Obi-Wan that this might be the moment they finally talk about Padme. He’s been bracing himself for it ever since they began this unmentionable dance between battles and grits his teeth, dread flooding through his body as he disentangles his legs from Anakin’s. He cannot be touching him if they’re going to have this conversation. He’s not yours, he has never been, he reminds himself for the millionth time, such an often repeated sentiment that it has perhaps lost all meaning.
But Anakin does not bring Padme up, not tonight. He shuffles closer, presses his arm into Obi-Wan’s, gaze downcast and something unusually young and small and vulnerable to the slope of his shoulders. “Fine,” he says. “I was just going to say—it’s funny we’re doing this, now, blowing off steam together. Because when I was a child, I had a huge crush on you.”
At first, Obi-Wan’s heart is so stuck on the thorn of blowing off steam that it takes a minute to catch up with the rest. But then, the implications hit him, and he squirms, surprised. He never—he’s spent years damning himself for his regard for Anakin, particularly how early it started. Far too early for it to be something he could justify to himself, under any circumstances. Knowing it was returned, even to some fragile and childish degree, makes his blood speed. “When you were a child?” he blurts, raising his eyebrows. “Do you still?”
“What? No! Of course not,” Anakin says quickly, making a face. “That would make this an attachment,” he adds then, gesturing nebulously to the space, or lack thereof, between their naked bodies.
“Oh, and you don’t have any of those, do you?” Obi-Wan snaps, because he is always the one thinking of Padme more in these moments, which he finds rather unfair to the both of them.
Anakin grows quiet and sullen, rolls over so the broad, golden expanse of his back is turned to Obi-Wan. It’s criss-crossed in red marks from Obi-Wan’s nails, and it mortifies him to behold them, to know there’s evidence of the way he claws at Anakin, trying so desperately and pathetically to hold on to any part of him. He always slips through the slats of his fingers in the end, fools gold in river water, washing away downstream. “I’m flattered, Anakin,” Obi-Wan says gently, reaching out and tracing over those red marks with the tips of his fingers, gently soothing the sting. “I’m sorry, it’s just. It’s strange to think about.”
It’s not a lie, imagining such things is strange. That little boy admiring him, loving him, maybe even wanting him in the aimless, confused way that little boys do.
“I know I was just a kid to you then,” Anakin mumbles.
Obi-Wan scoffs, wishing it was that simple. The truth is, Anakin should have been just a child in his eyes, but unfortunately, Obi-Wan has always loved him in ways he absolutely should not have. It’s a horrible thing to recall—he didn't always know what it was, where it was coming from, but as his desires crystalized into something undeniable, it shed light upon the years past. Obi-Wan distinctly remembers getting butterflies in his stomach when Anakin hugged him at twelve, the dizzying heat he felt when he was close to his Force signature and its unmatched power. He remembers his heart aching when he watched Anakin’s face slack in his sleep, how beautiful he thought he was. Back then, he’d chalked it up to the untroubled purity of youth, the way Anakin looked peaceful in a way Obi-Wan knew he wasn't actually. None of it feels pure, not now. “You were terribly precocious,” he says, thumbing down Anakin’s spine. “I’m only surprised because you never seemed the type to entertain silly, unattainable affections.”
It is another dig about Padme, another attempt to show Anakin that he knows, even if they will never speak of it. But Anakin does not rise to the barb, he just rolls over, smiling as he says, “Unattainable?” Then he kisses Obi-Wan, and the universe grinds to a shuddering stop, like it always does when their lips are pressed flush.
Obi-Wan melts into it, opens his mouth, and submits to Anakin’s tongue, his hands, his breath. He always wonders how Anakin does not see through him in these moments, he is so profoundly and transparently in love. Unable to do anything but cede to his tide and soak him up, drink him in. Obi-Wan’s love feels like a slit throat—obvious, bleeding, fatal. The fact that they’re still fucking under the guise of two brothers in arms helping one another out is astounding. Anakin must know it’s more than that, for Obi-Wan. He must know it’s everything.
The kisses grow wetter, hungrier, and Anakin climbs on top of Obi-Wan and sinks his hands into his hair, angling him exactly how he wants him. They only just fucked an hour or so ago, but Anakin is rutting against him with intent anyway, cock twitching against his thigh. He is very young, so he will get hard again. And Obi-Wan is very in love, so he will follow. “It wasn’t my fault, you know,” Anakin mumbles out between wet, graceless drags of their mouth. “Everyone else had crusty old men as their Masters. I had you. It wasn’t fair.”
“In that case,” Obi-Wan says, pulse speeding as Anakin kisses across his jaw, then down his throat where he sucks, never quite hard enough to leave a mark. “I apologize for any distraction or confusion I might have inadvertently troubled my Padawan with.”
“Distraction, yes,” Anakin murmurs out against his sternum, hands all over his shoulders, his sides, making greedy fists in his flesh as he goes. Anakin is like this—rough and demanding and deliciously entitled, always bruising Obi-Wan with the force of his want. Obi-Wan loves it so much, wishes it was born from something other than touch-starved loneliness, from convenience. “Confusion, no. You were always very professional. Cold, even.”
Relief crashes over Obi-Wan’s body. “I’m very glad to hear that.” And then, fuck, because he has to know, it’s killing him even though he’s well aware he should release the question into the Force instead of voicing it, “What did you think about, when you had this crush?” His heart races the minute he says it, pounding there under Anakin’s searching lips. “Me petting your hair? Giving you your first kiss?” he teases, even though his hand is shaking when he pushes his fingers gently through Anakin’s loose curls.
Anakin makes a face. “Not exactly,” he says. Obi-Wan lifts an eyebrow at him, prompting for more, and Anakin squirms for a moment before continuing on. “At first, maybe? It was innocent, like that. Wanting to be close to you or hold your hand or for you to hug me, because it made me feel warm and special,” he admits, cheeks darkening a shade. Obi-Wan suspects he could feel the heat of that flushed skin under his lips were he to kiss Anakin right now, but he wants to hear more, so he keeps himself in check.
“But later…?” he ventures, and Anakin grimaces.
“Later, it didn’t just make me feel warm. It made me hard,” he grits out, and Obi-Wan’s breath hitches. “By the time I was thirteen, I thought about getting on my knees for you. Sucking your cock.”
Fuck. Thirteen is so astoundingly young, the word sits there between them, resting obscenely on the two-beat thud of Obi-Wan’s heart, pounding in his chest. Thir-teen, thir-teen, thir-teen. He was still in such deep denial at that point about his feelings for Anakin, was chalking them up to the confusing, evasive myth of fatherly affection. To know Anakin was already thinking such filthy things— thinking them about him—is stomach-turning in its overwhelm. He shudders, unsure of what to say. “Oh,” is what comes out.
Anakin’s mouth twitches into a frown. “I’m making you uncomfortable,” he says. “Talking about this.”
Obi-Wan’s insides clench—he wishes it was discomfort, but of course, it’s something much uglier and shame-stricken. “You’re not,” he says softly, shaking his head and shifting closer. “I’m charmed. I’d love to know more.”
“You would?” Anakin asks, something sweet bleeding through the vulnerability in his voice. It makes Obi-Wan hunger to tell him the terrible truth: I wanted you back then, too. But it was so horrible, so shameful, I didn't even realize what it was until it was far too late for me. Now I can’t cut it out of loving you in any of the ways I’m supposed to. They’re twined up like parasitic vines, kill one, kill me.
“Yes,” he says instead, dipping close enough to Anakin’s perfect mouth to bite it. “Is that wicked of me? That I want to know all your fantasies from when you were only thirteen?”
Anakin groans into Obi-Wan’s mouth, licks wet and sloppy over his teeth. “I like that you want to know, Master,” he murmurs, kisses growing rough, punishing as he ruts against Obi-Wan’s leg. “There’s so much—I thought about being in your bed, you putting your mouth all over me. Marking me up with your beard. I thought about being so good for you. Making you come so hard that you decided you couldn’t resist me,” he murmurs, smoothing his hands down Obi-Wan’s sides to his ass, which he grips in mauling fists for a moment, hissing through his teeth. “And then—as soon as I found out it was possible to fuck like this—I thought about that all the time,” he chokes out, fingers inching into Obi-Wan’s crack to nudge against his hole.
Sensation rockets through Obi-Wan’s body, sudden and electric. Anakin has never touched him there intentionally, never proposed they try that particular act, and this turn of events is shocking, floods his mouth, it is so unexpected and intense. Obi-Wan has always assumed it didn’t fit neatly into what they were doing—casual wartime sex between brothers in arms didn’t allow room for something so messy, so intimate, so raw, so vulnerable. Obi-Wan aches for it now that he knows it's something Anakin’s thought about, flexing against his prodding fingers in needing pulses.
“I see,” he murmurs, voice thin and strangled between kisses. “Did you imagine me doing such things to you, or you doing them to me?”
“Both,” Anakin confesses, kneading deeper, cock twitching when Obi-Wan gasps. “Mostly doing it to you, though. I didn’t think—I don’t know. It was hard to imagine you wanting me, so I imagined taking what I wanted from you.”
Obi-Wan is deliriously hard, desperate and trembling as Anakin kisses him rough and slick, all the while growing bolder and bolder with his fingers. He hasn’t penetrated him yet, he’s just rubbing at his hole, rhythmic and hungry and in time with his shallow, stilted bucks, like he’s imagining being inside him. Like he wants to be. Obi-Wan’s mind races past the point of logic, past the point of fear, distilling him down to pure desire so that all he can do is press back into Anakin’s fingers, back arching deep and filthy in a silent plea.
“Obi-Wan,” Anakin murmurs at some point, voice barely anything more than a sob. “Have you—can I?”
“You still want to?” Obi-Wan asks, feeling himself pulse against Anakin’s touch, so hot and needy and pitiful and obvious. It’s very clear what he wants, and knowing how much Anakin must be able to feel that is as arousing as it is humiliating. He thinks Anakin might make a joke, draw attention to his flayed desperation, but instead, he just groans wordlessly into Obi-Wan’s mouth.
“Yes, fuck, yes, Master, please,” is what he says. Obi-Wan nearly falls apart at it, his cock flexing and dripping where it’s trapped in the tight, humid space where their bodies are pressed flush. If he had not already come tonight, he would be in danger of losing control and spilling right there between them.
“I don’t have lubricant,” he realizes, but Anakin is already pulling back and sitting up, his hands everywhere, his eyes dark and wild and terrifying.
“That’s okay,” he says, voice thick, squeezing Obi-Wan’s waist so hard that it makes him wince, certain it will bruise. “I know what to do, I know—just roll over.”
Obi-Wan tries not to think too hard about what Anakin knows, or how he knows it. Instead, he just nods, swallows resolutely, and shifts onto his stomach, rutting his cock into the sheets. Anakin knocks his thighs apart and positions himself between, bending over him so that he can kiss down his spine, moaning quietly to himself as he goes. It is a wet, aimless, self-indulgent path, and Obi-Wan shuts his eyes and endures the remarkable pleasure of it, trying his hardest to relax rather than spiral into the anxiety of anticipation. It’s been a long time since he did this—let someone fuck him this way. He tried several times back on Coruscant to have casual sex with men he did not know, but he was never able to reconcile the act with anything that predated it: his loyalty to the Jedi code, his bad habit of seeking approval, his confusing, and later devastating feelings for his Padawan. And so, it’s been years. He would worry his body might resist, but he is always molten for Anakin, sloppy and gaping and hungry, an open wound for him to infect.
Anakin pauses, crouched there for a few moments just staring at Obi-Wan, exhalations erratic and hot against his skin. He’s not even doing anything but looking at him, and still his breath is catching, his heart is going wild in his chest with audible nerves, arousal pulsing up through their Force bond in feverish, bleeding waves. Obi-Wan is astonished that the mere sight of his body could do that to Anakin. It makes him shake and whimper to realize it, his cock achingly hard and dripping in the sheets as he humps against them, hips churning, the meat of his ass flexing for Anakin as he grinds against the bed. He's never thought about how he might look doing something so obscene, but knowing Anakin likes it, wants it, wanted it back when he was so young—it’s maddening.
Anakin parts his cheeks with a thumb, and Obi-Wan thinks he’s just going to spit onto his hole and finger the slickness into him, but then there’s his breath, a hot exhalation before the wettest, rawest thing he’s ever felt in his whole life—Anakin’s tongue, his lips, his mouth. Right there against him. Anakin moans as he licks deep and greedy, and Obi-Wan cannot stop himself from freezing and crying out.
Panting, Anakin pulls back. “Is this okay?” he asks in a broken voice.
“Ah—yes,” Obi-Wan manages to get out before Anakin dives back in and his mind whites out in the tide of slick, dirty pleasure. It’s so good, so wet, so much. Anakin eats him out like that’s the whole point. Like it’s what he came here to do, what he actually fantasized about doing when he was thirteen, and Obi-Wan loses his sense of time and space there under the insistent drag of his tongue, licked open, licked up, licked inside. All he can do is hold on—make fists in the sheets, bite his own arm to keep quiet.
“It feels good for you?” Anakin slurs at some point, like he’s surprised, like this is all the function of his own pleasure.
Obi-Wan nods into his pillow, which he realizes is damp from spit, tears, sweat, something. He hardly knows. “It’s wonderful,” he finally manages, looking over his shoulder.
The flash of Anakin’s smile is white and sharp and shining in spit. It’s clear he’s pleased with himself. He ducks back down, flicking his tongue teasingly over Obi-Wan’s swollen rim, their eyes locked and burning the whole time. It should feel filthy—and it does. But it’s also oddly profound, a surrender that Obi-Wan never thought a man like him could come close to touching. “Good,” Anakin mumbles eventually, voice thick, wet. “Because I could do this all night.”
“I’m not complaining,” Obi-Wan rasps. “But. You did say you had other plans for me tonight, as well.”
Anakin hums, smiles against him, looks up at him with hunter’s eyes, dark and calculating. “Are you greedy for my cock, Master?” he says then, and it needles through Obi-Wan’s body, electric and shameful in its crassness, its truth.
“Yes,” he admits. All the while, his cheeks are burning, stomach splitting and dropping around a surge of terrible, shame-seasoned want.
“Fuck,” Anakin curses, levering up onto his hands and knees, looming over Obi-Wan’s prone body. “Say that again. Tell me what you want me to do to you.”
Ah. Mortification swims inside him, makes his mind even hazier. “I want you to fuck me,” he forces out, every word sticking in his throat. “Like you wanted to when you were thirteen.”
“Oh, god,” Anakin murmurs, rubbing his face into Obi-Wan’s back, razing teeth and stubble against sensitive skin. God. God is a blasphemous word among the Jedi, suggesting something more tribal, ritual, primal than the Force. A false idol, a fetish. The irreverence spikes through Obi-Wan’s gut, makes him tremble. Anakin wants him, has wanted him in a way that is unholy, far from sacred, just as he has wanted Anakin in such a way. And it is not true reciprocity, he knows that much, want is not love, after all. But it eviscerates him all the same. And if that is not enough, Anakin bites his shoulder blade and moans, “I love you saying fuck, Master,” so close to I love you. Obi-Wan’s heart flutters, speeds, breaks. “Say it again? Say it for me?” he begs, pressing his face into Obi-Wan’s neck and sucking too high, too hard.
Obi-Wan can’t even remember why they’re not supposed to leave marks, does not even think to scold. He will give Anakin what he wants, he will give and he will give and he will give. Until he dies parched, until there’s nothing left of him. “Fuck me, Anakin, please,” he murmurs, right up against the shell of Anakin’s ear, back hollowing out into a deep, imploring concave. “Fuck me.”
Anakin loses himself, then. He growls wordlessly, grabs Obi-Wan rough and sudden, and maneuvers him onto his back, folds him in half by bending his knee to his chest. Obi-Wan is wet and sloppy already from his tongue, but Anakin spits in his palm anyway and pushes the thick foaming wash of it in with two fingers, crooking them savagely, opening Obi-Wan up like his body belongs to him, like he is something Anakin built, created, customized, and now owns. Obi-Wan loves it, lies there and takes it as he holds his own bent legs open, head thrown back, mouth open and gasping. “You’re so fucking beautiful, I’ve always thought so, it almost killed me when I was young,” Anakin chokes out, words slurred and almost unintelligible where he is pressing them to Obi-Wan’s chest. He fingers him with one hand, strokes his own cock with the other, every motion trembling with barely restrained force. “I hated you sometimes. Because you were perfect. And not mine.”
Obi-Wan moans, used hole fluttering desperately around Anakin’s knuckles before he withdraws them, leaving him aching and empty. And he must have truly lost his mind at this point, because moved by that sudden absence, he confesses the unspeakable: “Oh, Anakin, I was yours, I am yours. All of me.”
The blunt, searing head of Anakin’s cock presses against him then, breaches him in a sudden, agonizing jerk of his hips. The rest comes soon after, buried deep and burning in a single inescapable motion as Anakin sheaths himself entirely, “God, Master. Say that again, too,” he grinds out, not even waiting for Obi-Wan to adjust to the intrusion before he begins to fuck him mercilessly. “You are so tight, so fucking tight,” he babbles, biting at Obi-Wan’s pulse, sucking another mark, heedless of so many of their former tacit agreements about what this could look like, breaking every rule with his mouth.
Obi-Wan rides the wave of pain, throws himself into it, because there is nothing else he can do, nothing else he wants. “I’m yours, entirely yours, my dearest, darling—ah—Anakin, please,” he chokes, not even sure what he’s begging for at this point, only that he wants. Wants everything, wants it all. It hurts, steals his breath to be cored like this, and he loves it. Loves how badly Anakin needs it, how graceless and rough and out of control he feels on top of him, taking what belongs to him. Do you take Padme like this? Touch her so desperately? he wonders, but only for a moment, because part of him knows Anakin doesn’t. He can feel the singularity in their Force bond, the sheer force of his desire and possession surging up into it with unparalleled ferocity. This—this belongs to him alone. In this way, and perhaps this way only, Anakin is his, too.
It’s over almost as soon as it begins. Anakin seizes up, thrusts becoming more and more erratic as he pants against Obi-Wan’s neck. Obi-Wan can feel how close he is and fumbles between their bodies for his own cock, and in moments, he’s pushing himself over the edge as Anakin spills inside him, violent and searing and sudden. Time stops, his vision whites out, everything gives way to mad, animal breath and primordial tremors. Obi-Wan registers that he cannot quite breathe, then realizes it’s because Anakin has collapsed on top of him, hair everywhere, stuck in Obi-Wan’s still gasping mouth, strewn across his face. Obi-Wan sucks on the strands, sucks in a staggered lungful of air.
Long moments pass before Anakin manages to rise to his knees and pull out, leaving Obi-Wan’s body twitching and exposed, aching like a raw nerve. He hisses, feels his body leak down his leg and into the sheets. Trembling fingers press into him gently. “Did I hurt you?” Anakin asks, voice nothing but a strangled, urgent rasp.
Obi-Wan shakes his head, even though yes, it did hurt, it nearly blinded him with how much it hurt. He just cannot explain that the pain was part of what made it wonderful—part of what he wanted. “Only in the best way,” he finally answers.
Anakin frowns, clambers down, and curls up against Obi-Wan’s chest, suddenly small and peculiarly quiet against him. He is usually quite complacent after sex, but this time he seems different in ways Obi-Wan cannot articulate. He prods at their Force bond, finds guilt, even sadness, so he fingercombs gently through Anakin’s loose curls, arranging them across his shoulder and rubbing gently at the spot from where his Padawan braid was ritually cut several years ago. “So,” he ventures after a moment. “Was it everything you dreamed of as a boy?”
Anakin rubs his cheek onto Obi-Wan’s heartbeat. “It was better,” he admits after a moment.
A warm, relieved heat floods through Obi-Wan’s body. He had begun to worry that he had not lived up to expectation. That perhaps, in his deluge of honesty, he had ruined the illusion of unattainability and therefore ruined Anakin’s desire in return. But he should have known better—Anakin has never been a boy easily sated. Whenever he gets what he wants, it only makes him want something more. “Well then,” he murmurs. “Why do you seem troubled?”
Anakin pauses, and Obi-Wan wonders if maybe now , finally, after all of this, they will talk about Padme. If his barest confessions paved the way for Anakin’s after all.
Instead, Anakin shrugs, yawns, loops an arm around Obi-Wan’s waist. “We’re at war,” he says then, like that sums it all up. “I’m always troubled.”
Obi-Wan’s heart clenches beneath the weight of Anakin’s head. For the first time since this began, he considers bringing up Padme himself, instead of waiting for Anakin to do so, because he is so, so exhausted by the act of waiting. I know about Senator Amidala, Anakin. I have protected you this long, but after tonight, I think you owe me an explanation on how I fit into this. On how she fits into this. On how any of it fits into the code. But the words are bitter and metallic in his mouth, even unspoken, so after a moment of contemplation, he gives up and chooses to keep secrets another day. “Well. I hope living out your adolescent fantasies offered you a brief reprieve from such troubles.”
Anakin sits up and kisses him deep, pushing his tongue into Obi-Wan’s mouth, feeding him one hundred messy, masked half-truths. I’m sorry is the only one Obi-Wan can make sense of in their Force bond, and for reasons he doesn't quite understand, it only hurts worse to behold. Still, he opens his mouth, takes it all in silence.
They kiss and kiss, rough and salty and feverish. It feels like Anakin is trying to tell him something, but there are walls up around the place they join in the Force, and Obi-Wan suspects this might be the end of the night’s admissions. But Anakin’s eyes are anguished and tear-wet when he pulls away, then he immediately blurts, “I was a terrible Padawan, wasn’t I?”
Blinking, Obi-Wan finds himself numb with surprise. This is what he feels the need to apologize for? His childhood crush? “You were a remarkable, brilliant Padawan,” he tells him, thumbing over the scarred cut of his left cheekbone. “Top of your class. Stronger with the Force than anyone I have ever known.” It’s a rote, scripted thing he’s said before, but this time it seems even hollower than usual. You were incomprehensible and wild and dangerous, and I was in love with you, is the uglier truth buried beneath the recitation. I still am, because you are still all those things. It was not a passion-born lie when I said I was yours.
“That’s not what I mean,” Anakin urges. “I just. I was always in trouble, I never listened to you. But that—that was all because I wanted you so bad. I was angry at you about it, most of the time. Which wasn't fair.”
Obi-Wan shakes his head, baffled, touched. “It was good for me, to be pushed in the way you pushed me,” he admits. “And you were a boy, Anakin! You cannot be cruel to yourself for the things you felt back then.” Want did not make you a terrible Padawan, want made me a terrible Master, he thinks, and oh, he is still a terrible Master, because instead of reassuring Anakin with this fact, he’s biting it back, swallowing it down, burying it with the rest of his shame.
“You don’t understand,” Anakin mumbles, collapsing back into Obi-Wan’s side, hiding his face in his underarm. “You never will, because being a Jedi comes easy to you.”
“Are you still angry at me?” Obi-Wan asks, wondering if that is what this is all about. Anakin’s lingering resentment, vestiges of his teenage hurt still roiling inside of him, too fierce and petty to be permitted within the constraints of the code.
“No,” Anakin says after a moment, voice still dark, sulky. “I don’t think so. I think I’m just mad at myself.”
“You don't need to be,” Obi-Wan tells him, smoothing his fingers through his hair again, rubbing at the salt that’s crusted at his hairline from dried sweat. He brings his fingers to his tongue then and licks the taste of Anakin off. “Your childhood transgressions are in the past. And anyway, they are more my failings as your Master than they were your failings as a student, Also—,” he cuts himself off, flushing deeply, thinking about the way he’d said yours, ripped and raw and true. Like the way Anakin said god, ripped and raw and heretical. “As I’m sure you could gather by what followed, I rather enjoyed hearing about them.”
Finally, a reluctant smile from Anakin, the slice of it pressed into Obi-Wan’s ribs. “I rather enjoyed telling you,” he admits. “And also rather enjoyed what followed.”
Yours, god, yours. Obi-Wan thinks, sudden like a reflex, trembling out into their Force bond. He reaches out, silences it. Replaces it with an echo. I’m sorry.