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The glow of the holoprojector paints the Skywalker-Kenobi living quarters in flickering sepia tones, its grainy 22nd-century visuals warping slightly at the edges—a relic from an era when entertainment still relied on primitive two-dimensional formats. Obi-Wan's knees pop as he shifts against the duraleather couch, his arthritic left thumb worrying at the threadbare spot near the armrest where Anakin's saber calluses have worn the fabric thin over decades.
"Look at them," Anakin murmurs into Obi-Wan's neck, his breath warm against the silvered hairs curling at his Master's collar.
His durasteel fingers trace idle patterns through Obi-Wan's tunics, catching on the sash Leia embroidered with Nabooian silkflowers last Life Day. Across the room, Luke's sun-browned hand cups the back of Leia's head with terrifying gentleness, his thumb brushing the baby hairs at her nape—the same way Anakin used to cradle Padmé's face during sandstorm blackouts on Tatooine as a youngling.
Through the Force, the words resonate like plucked harp strings: You'll always be my Cacao Queen. Leia's answering smile is all sharp edges and stolen sweetness, her teeth catching Luke's lower lip in that particular way that makes Obi-Wan's stomach clench.
"Senatorial gossip columns will eviscerate us," Obi-Wan mutters, but his protest lacks heat.
The holofilm's miniature protagonists—tiny, incestuous chocolate artisans—cheerfully defy galactic morality from their rainforest canopy as Anakin's laughter rumbles against Obi-Wan's spine. "As if we ever cared about proper."
Outside, Coruscant's December blizzard batters the viewport, frosting transparisteel with ice crystals that shimmer like the sugar-dusted cocoa pods glowing onscreen.