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When he slept on the bed, he was all elbows. No longer the warm form that enveloped her so easily and gracefully, he slept askew on the bed, like he couldn’t get comfortable on anything other than a hard, cell floor.

It was odd, Padmé thought, how they had adapted in the smallest ways to that cell, and how it was those small things that continually crept up on them.

In the natural darkness, something within them eased, some control that was lost during the day was found again in the familiarity. This … was reality that could be controlled.

She knew the days were real, of course. Real in the way the light was so harsh and unceasing, in how things were sharp and hard and hurt.

Closing her eyes, she stroked Obi-Wan’s arm, up the warm skin, disturbing the hair that had lain flat, to the inside curve of his arm where his skin was so soft, and then around, to the sharp bone of his elbow. He did not shift in his sleep.

“Obi-Wan,” she murmured.

She was certain he was awake; not because she could tell, but because she knew him.

“Stop poking me,” she added softly.

“Sorry,” he whispered. He got up out of their bed, in this place that was theirs. He silently held out his hand, brushing her knuckles, and she turned her hand over, palm up, and his hand took hers. She rose out of bed, awkward to the movements of the softness beneath her.

They curled up on the floor, him behind her and his arms around her, and there was something perfect and easy in that.

“Your fault for being so pokey,” she muttered, shifting her weight to lean against him.

He said nothing, just kissed her on the shoulder.

They soon slept.

They always slept better on the floor; why neither would say. There was something perfect in it, and they did not care to define it, to make its beauty something recognizable and chartable.

They knew the world outside, with all its understanding and sharp lines, could not have this perfection.


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