Ever since you told Anakin that you are pregnant, things got out of control in his head.

It started three weeks ago—just flashes at first. Fleeting glimpses in the quiet hours of the night. A blur of sterile white walls, the faint antiseptic tang of bacta in the air, and the high-pitched beep of a heart monitor—before it fell silent. Anakin would jolt upright, lungs burning, drenched in cold sweat. His chest would seize with panic, and his first instinct was always the same: reach for you.

His hand, warm and real, would find you beside him—your body curled into his, breathing slow and steady. Alive. Safe. The sheer relief would crash over him like a tidal wave, so fierce it stole the strength from his limbs. But even then, in the comfort of your shared bed, the dread clung to him. It stayed, coiled in the corners of his mind like smoke that refused to clear.

At first, he’d tried to rationalize it—war stress, the Council breathing down his neck, the endless cycle of loss and duty. He told himself it was nothing. Just nerves. Just fatigue. But the visions didn’t stop. They grew stronger. More vivid. More real.

Every night, as his eyes slid shut, he was pulled into that same nightmare. That room—too bright, too cold. The stink of bacta, the sterile hum of machines, and something far worse: the quiet, suffocating panic of watching everything he loved fall apart in front of him.

You were there, lying on a medbed too large for your trembling frame, skin gone pale, lips tinged blue. His hands gripped yours, desperate, slipping as if holding on could change something. You called out to him—softly, brokenly—your voice barely a whisper: his name. "Ani..."

And then the words. Flat. Mechanical. Inevitable. "We lost them both."

Every time, it ended the same. Your eyes fluttering shut, your breath catching—then gone. Just like his mother. Just like Shmi, who'd died in his arms, with that same vacant, lifeless stillness.

It didn’t matter how many times he relived it. The pain was always fresh, always sharp—like a blade being driven through his chest over and over again. The fear didn’t fade. It only grew deeper. More consuming.

The Jedi preached acceptance. Detachment. Peace. Let go. But how could he? How was he supposed to let go of you? You were everything.

Tonight was no different. The vision struck without mercy. You were crying out, your back arching, body wracked with pain. Medical droids buzzed around you, blurs of metal and red light. He was there—screaming at them, begging, pleading. "Do something!" But they didn't move fast enough. They kept repeating those words. That sentence. That curse. "We lost them both."

Your fingers slipped from his. Your lips parted. You whispered his name one last time—"Ani... please..." And then, stillness.

Anakin awoke like he'd been thrown from the dream, body jerking upright. A silent gasp ripped from his throat as he clutched the shredded bedsheets. His human hand ached from gripping, nails digging into the mattress. He sat frozen while muted Coruscant lights filtered through blinds painting silver lines across the room.

He turned to you. You were still there. Sleeping. Peaceful. Alive. His gaze traced every inch of your face, like a man memorizing something already slipping through fingers. Your chest rose and fell in quiet rhythm, lips parted slightly as you dreamed. He reached out, brushing a loose strand from your cheek with trembling fingers, pressed a soft kiss to your temple. Lingered there, lips against skin, just to feel the warmth.

Then he pulled away and slipped from the bed. Floor cold beneath bare feet as he made his way to the living room. No lights. Galaxy outside window twinkled, oblivious to his storm. Stood in dark, jaw clenched, mechno-hand flexing restlessly while other hand dragged through hair. Nightmare still with him, thick and smothering, weight pressing against lungs. He couldn't breathe. Couldn't do this.

Why wouldn't they listen? Why wouldn't the Jedi take this seriously? If visions were truly from the Force, a warning, why did Council act like they didn't matter? Treat him like child with bad dream? Expect him to just accept it? Would they accept it if it were their wife? Their unborn child? No. They wouldn't.

Obi-Wan would quote the Code, tell him fear led to dark, to trust the Force. But how trust something showing him your death? Palpatine would understand. He listened, made Anakin feel heard. When Anakin spoke of fears, Chancellor hadn't dismissed him. Looked at him like he knew. Like he'd seen it before. Like he could help. But could he? Could anyone?

You couldn't know. He wouldn't burden you. You had enough—health, war, hiding, strain of keeping their love buried. Wouldn't add this to your shoulders. Even if it was killing him. Even if fear ate him alive from inside.

Breath shuddered out, raked fingers through hair again, harder—digging in, pulling, needing sharpness to remind himself he was still here. Still grounded. Still fighting.

A voice whispered in back of mind—silken and low. "There is another way." He flinched. Didn't know whose voice. Or maybe he did.

Truth settling in bones, heavy and cold: he couldn't watch you die. Wouldn't. No matter what he had to do. No matter lines crossed. He was Chosen One. Meant to bring balance. Could save you. Just needed a way. A plan. Time.

Then—a sound. Soft. Subtle. Unmistakable. Rustle of sheets. Creak of bedroom door. You were awake.