Chapter Text
The keypad glows like an angry red eye beneath Obi-Wan Kenobi’s fingertip. He punches the code Anakin Skywalker texted him—5710—into the wrought-iron gate guarding Republica Heights. The mechanism buzzes, heavy bolts sliding back with a hydraulic sigh. As he drives his modest Toyota Corolla through the opening, the gate whispers shut behind him like a secret kept. Beacon Hill’s historic brick facades give way here to sleek modernist homes shielded by mature oaks. Obi-Wan expects sterility: manicured lawns, silent driveways, the oppressive hush of wealth insulating its inhabitants from the world.
Instead, exhaust fumes and the sharp tang of fallen leaves mingle in the October air. He notes a dented trash bin knocked sideways near the curb, spilling orange peels onto the pavement. Human, he thinks grimly. Predictable. He’s barely turned onto the Skywalker driveway—cobblestone, wide enough for two cars—when a snarling engine rips through the quiet. An ATV rockets around the corner of the house, fishtailing on damp grass. Its rider—small, fierce, clad in mud-splattered jeans and a neon blue helmet—freezes mid-skid, front wheel inches from Obi-Wan’s bumper. The engine dies abruptly. Silence crashes back, thick with adrenaline and mortification.
Obi-Wan grips his steering wheel, knuckles white. His heart thuds against his ribs like a fist against a door. He lowers his window. "Luke Skywalker?" he calls, voice tighter than intended.
The rider yanks off the helmet. Auburn hair escapes in damp coils, framing a face flushed pink with exertion and embarrassment. Dark eyes, intelligent and wary, meet his. A breathless grin flashes, bright and incongruous.
"Nope! I'm his sister, Leia. Sorry about that." She swings a leg over the ATV, boots crunching on gravel. "Wasn't expecting visitors. Luke’s out back in the pool."
Obi-Wan exhales slowly, unclenching his hands. The tension bleeds out, replaced by a flicker of surprise. No spoiled veneer here. Just a genuine, dusty apology. "Ah. Thank you."
Leia kills the ATV’s ignition, the mechanical growl subsiding into the rustle of leaves. She sets her helmet down on the seat with a decisive clunk. Her gaze darts over Obi-Wan’s car—the worn upholstery, the university parking permit on the dash. "You're the tutor?" she asks, wiping grease smudges onto her jeans. At his nod, she gestures towards the imposing front door—dark walnut, etched with geometric patterns. "C’mon. I’ll give you the nickel tour from the door to the pool water. Dad likes shoes off."
He follows her, noting the effortless confidence in her stride. The foyer swallows them whole—a soaring space of pale limestone floors and minimalist steel beams. Sunlight streams through a cathedral window, catching dust motes as they dance in the air. It smells faintly of lemon polish, leather, and beneath it all, the metallic tang of ozone after rain. Leia toes off her muddy boots neatly beside a line of Chucks and Nikes. She shrugs out of her oil-stained riding jacket, hanging it on a chrome hook beneath an abstract painting that could be stars exploding or neurons firing.
Obi-Wan hesitates, acutely aware of his own sensible Oxfords. He toes them off and places them precisely beside hers. His worn wool socks feel suddenly inadequate on the cool stone. He straightens his tweed jacket—its elbow patches frayed, survivor of a thousand faculty meetings.
"Dad’s rules," Leia explains, catching his glance. "Keeps the floors clean." She pads barefoot across the expanse. "I’m Leia, obviously. What's your name?"
"Obi-Wan Kenobi," he says, offering a small, polite smile. "From Harvard’s Math Support Center. Your father reached out." He doesn’t add for Luke. The implication hangs heavy.
He expects Leia’s face to tighten, sibling resentment flaring. Instead, her grin deepens, mischievous. "Mr. Kenobi," she repeats, testing the syllables. Then she chuckles, a surprisingly warm sound. "Good luck."
The way she says it—not cruel, but genuinely pitying—makes Obi-Wan’s dread solidify. Impossible kid, her tone implies. Exactly what he anticipated. A spoiled rich boy, guarded by a distant father who throws money at problems. Obi-Wan steels himself. Two hours. He could survive two hours for the paycheck.
They move through ground-floor rooms, seamlessly curated and unnervingly lived-in. A formal living room boasts a pristine grand piano littered with sheet music scribbled with notes in Leia’s looping hand. A den features deep leather couches buried beneath Star Trek throw blankets and half-built Lego X-Wings. The air hums with soft jazz emanating from invisible speakers. It’s a museum exhibit interrupted by adolescence. Leia gestures towards a sliding door revealing a sun-drenched library—floor-to-ceiling mahogany shelves groaning under the weight of histories, physics texts, and dog-eared graphic novels. Obi-Wan pauses, drawn instinctively to the spines. Military history. Cybersecurity manuals. Poetry anthologies. Padmé Amidala: Selected Speeches.
"How about your parents?" Obi-Wan asks, studying the eclectic collection.
He glances towards a framed photo on a shelf—Anakin Skywalker in Army fatigues, impossibly young, looking haunted, holding newborn twins swaddled in blue and pink. A woman with dark, serene eyes smiles beside him, leaning heavily on a cane. Leia shrugs, leaning against the doorframe. Her gaze follows his to the photo.
"Mom died when we were babies. Cancer." The words are matter-of-fact, edged with a sadness worn smooth by time. "But Dad's cool. He works for Dicksa." She pronounces it deliberately: *Dick-sa*.
Obi-Wan chokes. A startled laugh bursts from him, harsh in the quiet room. Leia beams, eyes sparkling.
"Gotcha!" she crows. "It’s *D-C-S-A*. Defense Counterintelligence Security Agency," she enunciates proudly, clearly enjoying the practiced delivery. "Dad calls them ‘The Spies.’ He says they make him wear terrible ties."
Obi-Wan wipes his eyes, laughter subsiding into a genuine smile. This girl was sharp as a scalpel. No snobbishness. Just sharp wit and unsettling honesty. He follows her deeper into the house, through a dining room dominated by a heavy oak table strewn with chemistry textbooks and VR goggles. The scent hits him first as they approach the kitchen doorway—rich chocolate, vanilla, caramelized sugar. Warmth radiates into the hallway. Loud, unabashed singing crashes over them next, accompanied by rhythmic batter-beating. Britney Spears. "Hit me baby one more time!". The voice was male, surprisingly resonant, slightly off-key.
They step into chaos disguised as a kitchen. Sleek stainless-steel appliances gleam amid battlefield conditions. Flour dusts every surface like fresh snow. Eggshells decorate the sink island like abstract art. Melted chocolate pools near the oven controls. And at the epicenter, clad in a black Army of One apron smeared with cocoa, stands Anakin Skywalker. He faces away from them, hips swaying rhythmically as he scrapes thick batter into a baking pan. His blond hair is short, military-neat, but unruly curls escape at his temples. Broad shoulders flex beneath the apron straps as he whips around dramatically, wooden spoon held like a microphone.
"MY LONELINESS IS KILLING MEEE—" He freezes mid-note.
The spoon drops with a clatter. Blue eyes—startlingly bright—widen as they land on Obi-Wan. A dusting of flour clings to his high cheekbones. Chocolate smudges his jawline. For a heartbeat, the world narrows to those wide, expressive eyes and the sudden silence. Obi-Wan registers lean muscle beneath the apron, the sharp line of a stubbled jaw, the faint scar bisecting his left eyebrow. Leia doesn't pause. She darts forward, nimble as a cat, snatches two steaming brownies from a cooling rack beside the oven. She passes one, still molten-hot, to Obi-Wan. It scalds his fingers. The rich, decadent scent floods his senses.
"Heeeey, Dad," Leia chirps, wrapping her free arm around Anakin's flour-dusted waist in a quick hug. "Mr. Kenobi's here to tutor Luke." She gestures vaguely with her brownie-loaded hand towards the wall of glass doors behind them. Beyond, shimmering turquoise water reflects afternoon light. "I got a killer idea for my Lit essay while riding," she adds, already stepping back, "Gotta write it before the train derails!"
Anakin’s stunned expression melts into a smile directed at Leia—fond, exasperated, utterly charmed. He ruffles her hair, leaving streaks of flour. "Chugga-chugga, then," he says, his voice warm honey after Britney's pop-synth roughness. "Dinner will be ready at six. Chicken parm."
Leia flashes Obi-Wan another grin, bites into her brownie, and vanishes back down the hallway, footsteps echoing. Obi-Wan stands frozen, the warm brownie a brand in his palm. Anakin Skywalker turns fully towards him. Obi-Wan instinctively lifts the brownie to his mouth, taking a bite—a reflex of politeness, a shield against awkwardness. Dark chocolate floods his tongue—intense, bittersweet, perfectly balanced by flakes of sea salt. Butter and vanilla bloom underneath. The texture is sublime, a crisp crust yielding to a molten fudge center. It's transcendent. Obi-Wan swallows, heat radiating through his chest.
Words tumble out, unbidden, husky with appreciation. "My God. This is incredible."
Anakin Skywalker smiles. It transforms his face—lighting his eyes, creasing the corners, softening the scar’s stark line. He wipes his hands on his apron. "Glad you think so." He extends a large, work-roughened hand. Tiny scars map the knuckles; a faded tattoo peeks beneath his sleeve cuff—a stylized Republic cog crossed by a saber. "Nice to meet you, Dr. Kenobi."
Obi-Wan shakes his hand automatically. Calloused skin scrapes against his own. "You can call me O..." His voice falters. He finally registers the man before him fully: thirty-six years old, etched with unexpected depth. Youthful vigor pulsed beneath the domestic flour smears. Intelligence sparked in those startlingly blue eyes. Strength resonated in his posture. An inexplicable warmth, incongruous with the sterile 'government analyst' image Obi-Wan had constructed, emanated from him. "...bi-Wan," he finishes lamely.
Anakin’s smile deepens. A soft chuckle escapes him. "Alright, Ohhhhh-bi-Wan," he drawls, the vowel stretching playfully. "You can call me Anakin."
He releases Obi-Wan’s hand, leaving his palm tingling. Obi-Wan’s brain stutters. The brownie’s perfection, the chaotic kitchen warmth, the sheer presence of this unexpectedly vibrant man… it scrambles his caution. The observation surfaces, pure and unbidden, and bypasses every filter.
"You're gorgeous."
Silence. Anakin blinks. Flour drifts from his hair onto his apron strap. Obi-Wan feels the blood drain from his face, then rush back in a scalding wave. Horror clamped tight around his throat. Stupid, stupid, stupid—Professional. Discreet. Before Obi-Wan can splutter an apology, Anakin Skywalker tilts his head. His eyes crinkle, not with offense, but with amused appraisal. His gaze travels deliberately over Obi-Wan—the worn tweed, the neatly combed grey hair, the flush burning his ears.
"You're quite handsome yourself," Anakin replies, his voice low and steady.
Obi-Wan’s mouth opens. He can taste chocolate and panic. "Sorry, I—" He gestures vaguely, the half-eaten brownie a damning piece of evidence. Unprofessional. Unacceptable. Ruined. Anakin shrugs easily, picking up the discarded wooden spoon. Chocolate batter drips onto the floor.
"It's alright." He meets Obi-Wan’s mortified gaze directly. The amusement remains, softened by something else—curiosity? Acceptance? "I wasn't lying." A pause, deliberate. Meaningful. "You're quite attractive."
Obi-Wan’s blush intensifies, a furnace igniting beneath his skin. He stares at the brownie crumbs on his fingers, anywhere but Anakin Skywalker's relentlessly handsome, open, flour-dusted face. Relief wars with utter panic. Where was the cold, detached father? The distant employer? This man is... disarming. Anakin mercifully breaks the charged silence. He nods towards the wall of glass doors Leia had gestured to earlier.
"Right. Luke." He moves past Obi-Wan, his shoulder brushing lightly against Obi-Wan's tweed sleeve. A spark of static, or pure proximity, radiated warmth? "This way."
He slides a door open. Cool, chlorine-scented air replaces the kitchen's sweetness. Obi-Wan follows, clutching his brownie like an anchor. The pool deck is a seamless blend of bluestone pavers and artificial turf. Water features cascade softly into the shimmering turquoise rectangle. Beyond the security fence, Beacon Hill’s rooftops sprawl towards the Charles River. And in the center, face-down on a giant pink flamingo float, lies Luke Skywalker. His blond hair is damp, sticking to his forehead. Oversized sunglasses obscure half his face. AirPods gleam white in his ears. A red plastic cup—root beer fizzing visibly—nestles in a cupholder molded into the float. He’s utterly still, soaking in the watery autumn sun.
Anakin leans against the doorframe, crossing flour-dusted arms. His gaze on his son is complex—a blend of worry, fierce protectiveness, and profound exhaustion.
"That's Luke. Thirteen going on thirty, or sometimes going on three." He sighs, the sound heavy with frustration learned over the years. "He's got dyslexia. Pretty severe. And dyscalculia too—numbers swim, letters flip. Makes math and reading feel like climbing Everest covered in grease." He glances sideways at Obi-Wan. "The tutors…" A wave of his hand dismissed them all. "The good ones burn out. The others… quit. Couldn't crack it. Didn’t have the patience." His voice tightens. "He's smart. So damn smart. He built a functional astromech droid last summer out of scrap metal and Raspberry Pis. But get him with equations? Total meltdown."
Anakin pushes off the doorframe, running a hand through his hair, dislodging more flour. "My job… It’s versatile. Analyst work? Home office." He gestures back towards the kitchen. "Field duties? Out chasing threats to substations or train yards. Sometimes dayshift, sometimes midnight chaos." He meets Obi-Wan’s gaze, desperation bleeding through the practiced calm. "I don't have enough hours, Obi-Wan. Leia’s got robotics club, fencing lessons. Luke used to have swimming, but he quit after… Anyway. Evenings are the only chunk of time." He hesitates, then plunges forward. "Could you? Afternoons and evenings? Four days a week? Maybe… more?"
Obi-Wan stares at Luke’s motionless form. The pink flamingo bobs gently. He’d expected defiance, arrogance. This stillness feels more profound, more troubling. He nods slowly. "I specialize in neurodivergent learners, Anakin. Tailored approaches. Persistence." He pauses. "But consistency is key. Especially evenings—reinforcing concepts after the school-day fog."
Anakin exhales, relief palpable. "Good. Good." He chews his lip, then points beyond the pool’s far end. Nestled against a treeline beneath a large maple dripping fiery red leaves stands a structure—smaller than the main house, but elegant. Cedar siding, slate roof, and wide windows facing the pool. It looked like a miniature mansion. A pool house writ large. "See that?"
Obi-Wan nods, brow furrowed.
"I'm unsure about your current housing situation," Anakin begins, casually dropping a bomb. "But that’s fully equipped. Bedroom, bathroom, kitchenette, living space with a study nook. Gigabit fiber, dedicated HVAC. Empty." He looks back at Obi-Wan, his blue eyes intense, earnest. "If you could live there on weekdays—Sunday evening through Friday afternoon—to work with Luke, that’d be optimal. Close proximity. Flexible hours. No commute hell." He ticks points off on floury fingers. "You’d be fed—we eat family dinners. You won't need to pay rent or utilities. Weekends are yours to go home, recharge. Take off days if needed—just give me two hours' notice so I can scramble coverage." He tilts his head. "So. What do you say?"
The proposal hangs like crystal in the autumn air. The silence stretches, punctuated only by the splash of water from the cascades. Obi-Wan’s rented studio apartment in Somerville—the peeling paint, the perpetually broken hotplate, the clanking radiator—flickers in his mind's eye. This… this was insane. Generous to the point of recklessness. Living rent-free in Beacon Hill? Access to private tutors is rarely afforded such luxuries. His gaze drifts back to Anakin Skywalker—the flour smudge on his cheekbone, the hopeful vulnerability in his eyes, the sheer magnetism of his presence. Obi-Wan Kenobi, PhD, veteran, pragmatist… felt an unfamiliar, terrifying sensation: being swept away.
His throat is dry. "I… I can start today," he hears himself say. The practicality clawed back instantly. "But…" He gestured lamely at his worn tweed jacket and sensible trousers. "I don't have any clothes. Or supplies."
Anakin snaps his fingers as if that solved everything. "Great! You can start after dinner."
He turns, strides back into the kitchen, Obi-Wan trailing him like a dazed satellite. Anakin rummages briefly in a drawer beside the gleaming espresso machine, then turns back. He presses a rectangle of black plastic into Obi-Wan’s hand. It feels heavy, cold. A Centurion Card. An American Express Black Card.
"Take this." Anakin’s tone is matter-of-fact, as if handing over a napkin. "Clothes first. Three sleepwear sets. Three comfortable daytime outfits—teaching Luke isn’t a suit gig. Three nice casual outfits. Swimwear—Luke likes poolside sessions sometimes. Oh, and a good suit. Black tie optional." He flashes that disarming grin again. "My kids attend galas. BB&N fundraising nightmares. Might need backup if Leia decides debating isn't enough theatrics. Should run about… three to four grand?" He waves dismissively. "Then… groceries. Snacks you like—in case the twins devour your favorites. Any gadgets you think would help Luke—text-to-speech software, specialized keyboards, tactile manipulative kits? Give me receipts; DCSA reimburses assistive tech under family support." He pauses, calculating. "Say… another seven or eight grand? Don’t skimp." He turns back to the stove, picking up the batter bowl. "Oh, and pick yourself up dinner. You’ll miss ours shopping."
Obi-Wan stares down at the obsidian card resting on his flour-dusted palm. The weight of it, the sheer absurdity of the number—ten or twelve grand—is paralyzing. The plastic gleams like polished jet, an alien artifact dropped into his mundane world. He looks up, mouth opening to protest, to question, anything. But Anakin isn’t looking. He’s humming Britney again, spooning batter into another pan, his flour-dusted shoulders moving in time to a beat Obi-Wan can’t hear. He seems utterly oblivious to the magnitude of what he’s placed in Obi-Wan’s hand, the vortex he’s pulled him into.
Obi-Wan Kenobi closes his mouth. The protest dies unspoken. He clutches the impossibly heavy card. The scent of baking chocolate fills his lungs. The warmth of the brownie still lingers on his tongue. The image of Anakin Skywalker’s teasing grin fills his vision. Standing amidst the flour-strewn battlefield of this kitchen in Beacon Hill, he feels a tremor run through him—a profound shift beneath his feet.
I am so screwed, he thinks, and the thought tastes strangely like hope. He pockets the Black Card.