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Padmé doesn’t mean to yell.
It just… comes out of her like a reflex, like her lungs are doing it before her brain catches up.
"Ani,” she calls, voice too sharp for how small their apartment is. "Ani—!”
There’s a thud from the bedroom. A muffled, half-asleep, already-suspicious, "What?”
Padmé stares down at the stick in her hand like it might change its mind if she looks away.
It doesn’t.
Her throat goes tight. Her fingers are trembling. She presses her free palm to the bathroom counter like it can hold her steady.
"Ani!” she calls again, louder.
His footsteps hit the hallway a second later—barefoot, quick, that familiar half-stumble he does when he’s not quite awake yet. He appears in the doorway in sweatpants and an old Bruins T-shirt that he got in his rookie season and now stretches a little too tightly across his biceps, hair a mess, eyes narrowed in immediate concern.
"What?” he asks, scanning her face like he’s bracing for blood. "What’s wrong?”
His eyes flick over her—whole, standing, not hurt, not crying.
Then they drop to the counter.
His whole body goes still.
"What?” he asks, instantly awake now. "Padmé—what is it?”
She doesn’t trust her voice. She just holds it out.
He stares at the test for half a second, brow knitting like his brain is buffering. Then his eyes widen. Then widen more.
He looks up at her so fast it’s almost a jerk. "Is that—”
Padmé nods once, the motion tiny and shaky. "Yeah.”
Anakin makes a sound that isn’t quite a laugh and isn’t quite a gasp. His hand flies to the doorframe like he needs to steady himself.
Then his eyes snap up to hers, wide and bright and disbelieving.
"Oh my god.”
Padmé’s heart pounds harder. "Say something.”
His expression breaks—like the dam finally gives—and the biggest, most unguarded smile rips across his face.
"You-" he breathes. "You’re pregnant."
Padmé laughs, wet and shocked. "I’m pregnant.”
Anakin steps into the bathroom like he can’t help himself, like gravity is yanking him forward. He cups her face in both hands, thumbs warm along her jaw, and looks at her like she’s the only thing in the world. He kisses her—quick, fierce, overwhelmed. Then pulls back, forehead pressed to hers, eyes darting like he’s trying to figure out how she feels about it.
She doesn’t know how she feels about it.
"Okay,” he says, breathless. "Okay. Okay.”
Padmé’s throat tightens. "This wasn’t… planned.”
"I mean," Anakin’s smile softens into something quieter, steadier. "we weren’t exactly… careful,” he says, the faintest edge of sheepishness in his voice.
Padmé’s cheeks go hot immediately.
Because he’s right.
Because they hadn’t been.
They are young and in love, okay? And sometimes they’re tired and frantic and starved for each other. Sometimes they get a little too overeager and forget things they absolutely know better than to forget. Sometimes it’s accidental. Sometimes it’s… not.
Sometimes it’s on purpose, because it’s hot and stupid and makes Anakin look at her exactly like he did that first time when he promised her a house and a lake and this.
Padmé lifts her chin, trying to cling to dignity. "We were… reasonably careful.”
Anakin raises one eyebrow.
Padmé’s eyes narrow. "Don’t.”
He can’t help it—he lets out a quiet, disbelieving laugh. "You can’t say that with a straight face.”
"Ani—”
"You looked at me one time and said 'just this once,’” he reminds her, voice dropping with fondness. "And then you said it again the next day.”
Padmé groans, covering her face with one hand. "I hate you.”
"No,” he says, kissing her temple. "You love me.”
She drops her hand and meets his eyes again. Her voice goes smaller, more real.
"I’m scared.”
Anakin’s expression shifts immediately—softness sharpening into something protective and certain.
He slides his hands to her waist, steadying her like she might tip. "Me too,” he admits. Then, like it’s the truest thing he knows: "But I’m happy.”
Padmé’s breath catches.
His grin returns, bright as sunrise. "I’m so happy.”
"Okay,” she whispers, laughing again because she can’t help it, because the joy is bubbling up under the fear. "Okay. Me too.”
Anakin kisses her again, slower.
Then he pulls back like he just remembered something important. His eyes flick toward the bedroom.
"I’m calling out.”
Padmé blinks. "What?”
He’s already moving, already stepping around her like he’s on a mission. "Morning skate. I’m calling out.”
Padmé follows him on instinct, barefoot and blinking in the softer light of their bedroom. "Anakin—”
He’s rummaging through the bedcovers, patting for his phone. "Where is it?"
Padmé’s voice rises. "Ani, I’m fine," she insists, stepping closer. "You’ve never missed morning skate. I’m gonna be okay. I’m literally just—”
"Pregnant,” he supplies, eyes bright and a little wild. Like he can’t stop saying it in his head.
He finally finds his phone on the nightstand where it’s been the whole time. He snatches it up.
Padmé reaches for his wrist. "Anakin.”
He looks down at her hand on him. Then back up at her face. His voice is gentler now, but no less certain. "I’m not leaving you.”
"Ani, you’re not leaving me. You’d be gone for two hours.”
"Still,” he says, like that’s the whole point. Like two hours is too much when everything has changed.
Padmé’s chest tightens. She starts to argue again—habit, reflex, responsibility drilled into her bones—because her gaze catches on the corner of his skate bag, half unzipped, slumped against the wall where it was dropped late last night without thought.
His jersey is peeking out like a quiet accusation.
The A stitched onto the chest.
Last year they’d handed it to him in a quiet little ceremony and he pretended he wasn’t emotional, even though the team had clapped so hard his ears had turned red. Even though he’d come home and tossed it onto the couch like it didn’t matter, then sat staring at it for twenty minutes like it weighed more than a jersey should.
Responsibility.
Leadership.
Being the guy everyone looks at when things get ugly. And she knows last night was ugly. They’re counting on him to show up.
Padmé swallows, suddenly feeling the full shape of their life pressing in from every side.
"Ani,” she says again, softer now. "Go be with you team. You have—”
"I have a responsibility,” he finishes, because of course he knows what she was gonna say. His jaw tightens. "I know.”
Padmé watches him, heart pounding. "So—”
"So I’m calling out,” he repeats, like it’s the only answer that makes sense. "Because this is bigger.”
Padmé’s throat tightens again, that same dizzy mix of warmth and panic.
"Anakin,” she whispers, and her voice cracks on his name in a way that makes his eyes snap up instantly.
He crosses the room in three strides, phone forgotten in his hand, and cups her face again.
"Hey,” he says, low and steady. "Look at me.”
Padmé looks.
"I’ve shown up for every skate,” he says. "Every game. Every practice. Every flight. Every meeting. I’ve done everything they’ve asked of me, and I’ll keep doing it.”
He swallows.
"But I’m not missing this. Not today."
Padmé’s eyes burn.
"Okay,” she breathes.
Anakin’s mouth twitches into a grin. "Okay?"
Padmé nods, laughing through it despite herself. "Okay.”
Three months later, pregnancy is still scary but not in the way it was scary standing alone in their bathroom.
It’s just… Tuesday. It’s in the little things that make it real.
It’s the way Padmé automatically turns her body sideways when she walks past the kitchen island now, like she’s protecting something precious without even thinking about it. The way Anakin has learned, with terrifying speed, exactly what "I’m fine” means in each of its thirteen different tones.
It’s the way he looks at her stomach like he’s seeing a miracle happen in real time.
Every day.
Padmé had expected the world to keep spinning like normal. It doesn’t. It spins, sure—but now everything has a soft edge of unreal. Like the air is warmer. Like the future is closer.
Some mornings, she wakes up before Anakin and just lies there in the quiet, staring at the ceiling, listening to him breathe.
And she thinks: There’s really a person in me.
They tell her parents at brunch because her mom loves a good brunch because she can insist on mimosas. Padmé’s stomach does anxious little flips the entire time because she has rehearsed the speech in her head a dozen times and still didn’t trust herself not to cry on the word baby.
Anakin is unhelpful—grinning the entire drive over, squeezing her hand at every red light, like he hadn’t been sweating bullets the first time he met her parents in full gear with a split lip and blood on his teeth.
She takes two bites of her eggs when her mother notices she isn’t drinking and stammers through exactly three words before Jobal figures it out.
"Oh," her mother whispers, eyes already shining. "Oh my god.”
Padmé blinks. "How did you—”
"Because I’m your mother,” Jobal said, like it was obvious. Like she’d been waiting for this since Padmé was fourteen and bossing the neighborhood kids into line at the skating rink. "Are you—are you—”
Padmé nods, breathless. "Yes.”
Jobal cries. Quietly, at first, wiping her eyes with a napkin like she was trying to be dignified about it—until Padmé said, "Please don’t start buying baby clothes yet,” and her mother laughs through tears and said, "We’ll see.”
Sola finds out the next morning because Padmé made the mistake of answering her sister’s call before she had coffee.
She hears the words and screams so loud Padmé has to pull the phone away from her ear.
"Playdates!" Sola shrieks. "I’m buying you a stroller! I’m moving into your building!"
Padmé laughs. "Sola—”
"I don’t care,” Sola says. "I get to be the fun aunt instead of the buzzkill mom! I’m going to spoil that baby so bad!"
Obi-Wan is… a different experience.
They tell him over dinner, because that feels right.
He’s halfway through a story—something sarcastic about Anakin at fourteen, because apparently that’s all he exists to do—when Padmé slides an ultrasound photo across the table.
Obi-Wan glances down.
Frowns.
Leans closer.
His brows lift.
He goes completely pale.
Padmé watches him, heart in her throat, and starts to panic for exactly two seconds—
Until Anakin reaches across, grabs Obi-Wan’s wrist, and says, very gently: "Breathe.”
Obi-Wan blinks once, then again.
"You’re—” he starts, then stops. Clears his throat. Tries again. "You’re having a baby.”
Padmé nods, suddenly emotional in a way that catches her off guard.
"Yes.”
Obi-Wan stares at the little grainy image like it might start talking back.
Then he looks up at Anakin, eyes glassy, voice hoarse.
"I’m happy,” he says quickly, like he needs them to know it before anything else. "I am. I’m—” he swallows. "I’m just… going to need a moment.”
Padmé talks to her coaches next, because Padmé does not do life-altering things without a plan.
The Organas are… not soft, exactly. They’re supportive, yes, but supportive in the way elite training programs are supportive—practical, precise, already adjusting schedules and nutrition and conditioning like it’s a chessboard.
They don’t panic. They don’t baby her.
They just look at her and tell her how to do this safely, how to keep her strong, how to protect her body and her future.
Padmé leaves that meeting with her throat tight and her spine straighter.
Because she’s still herself.
Just… with an addition.
She comes home to Anakin in the kitchen. He doesn’t even look up when she comes in. Just says, casually: "I bought prenatal vitamins.”
Padmé blinks. "You did what.”
Anakin opens the cabinet and points. There they are. Lined up neatly next to the ginger tea and the crackers and the absurd amount of snacks he’s been stocking for her.
Padmé stares at him.
He finally looks up, eyebrows raised like it’s obvious. "What? You’re growing a person.”
Padmé crosses her arms. "You’re nesting.”
Anakin scoffs. "I’m being responsible.”
Padmé walks closer, sliding her arms around his waist from behind, pressing her cheek to the warm space between his shoulder blades.
He stills. Softens instantly.
"You okay?” he asks, low.
Padmé hums. "Yeah.”
Anakin’s hand covers hers, fingers lacing automatically. "Yeah?”
"Yeah,” she repeats, smiling into his back. "It’s just… everything’s good.”
He turns in her arms, slow. Catches her face, kisses her gently—careful now in a way that still makes her roll her eyes, because she’s not fragile, but also makes her heart beat faster.
"I told you,” he murmurs against her mouth. "I told you we’d be good.”
Padmé finds out it’s twins at five months pregnant.
It happens on a Wednesday and she thinks, how come nothing life-altering ever happens on a calm, well-rested Saturday, with a cute little brunch after and a nap scheduled into the afternoon?
It’s raining and everything sucks. Anakin’s schedule is a mess. He’s leaving tomorrow for a road trip that makes her want to cry. West coast swing. Too many days. Too many time zones for her to keep up with. Too many mornings where she’ll wake up reaching for him and find cold sheets instead. Her back hurts, the baby has been using her bladder like a trampoline since 5:03 AM and from the passenger seat she is watching Anakin, getting mildly annoyed by him showing off, when in reality he is simply parallel parking.
They get to the doctor’s office and Padmé is miserable, slumped in one of those chairs that are designed by someone who has never been pregnant in their life.
Anakin exhales. "I hate that I’m leaving tomorrow.”
Padmé’s throat tightens, sharp and sudden. She stares down at her hands. "Don’t,” she says quietly. "Not here.”
Anakin’s hand finds her knee, steady and warm. "I wasn’t gonna…,” he murmurs. "I’m just—”
"I know,” Padmé cuts in, voice softer now. "I know.”
Her phone buzzes—an email, probably, from someone at the training facility, or a text from Sabé asking if she remembered to eat today. Padmé doesn’t look.
She doesn’t want the outside world right now. She wants this moment to stay contained, quiet, manageable.
Anakin shifts closer, lowering his voice like he’s sharing a secret. "After this appointment, we’re getting you something good. Something with carbs.”
Padmé’s eyes narrow suspiciously. "Are you bribing me with bread.”
Anakin’s mouth quirks. "Is it working.”
Padmé tries not to smile.
She fails.
They wait. Padmé watches the rain streak down the window like it’s mocking her. Anakin scrolls through his calendar with his whole face set in a grimace, because his schedule is a nightmare and he’s trying to rearrange everything without actually saying he’s trying to rearrange everything.
Padmé catches him and raises an eyebrow. He pockets his phone like he’s been caught cheating. She snorts.
Ten minutes later she stops feeling like laughing again, because the tech says, brightly, "You’re having twins.”
Padmé goes very still.
Her first thought is not joy. It’s not even panic. It’s—
Why can’t it be Saturday?
Her second thought is—
Oh my god. I have to pee.
She turns her head slowly. "What.”
Anakin makes a small sound beside her.
The tech points at the screen, cheerful. "Two babies,” she says, like she’s pointing out two cute puppies in a window. "See? There’s one… and there’s the other.”
Padmé stares. There are two shapes, two heartbeats, two tiny flickers of movement.
Her mouth opens. Closes. Opens again.
"Two?” she whispers.
The tech nods, still smiling. "Two.”
Anakin’s hand tightens on her arm.
Padmé feels like she’s falling off a cliff in slow motion.
Her brain starts firing in rapid, insane fragments:
Two cribs. Two car seats. Two babies kicking her ribs. Two babies at once. Two little bodies in her arms. Two little faces. Two—
Anakin makes a strangled noise, halfway between a laugh and a sob, and Padmé turns her head just enough to look at him.
His eyes are wide. Bright. Wet at the edges like he’s trying very hard not to lose it in front of the tech.
His mouth is open like he’s trying to say something and keeps failing.
Padmé stares at him, still stunned. "Anakin.”
He looks at her like she’s the only thing in the room.
Then he looks back at the screen.
Then back at her.
And his face—his whole face—breaks open into pure, helpless joy.
"Oh my god,” he whispers. "Padmé.”
Padmé swallows. Her throat burns. "Are you… happy?”
Anakin lets out a laugh that sounds like relief and wonder and sheer disbelief. "Are you kidding? I’m—” He shakes his head, like he can’t find the right words. "We’re having two.”
Padmé’s eyes fill so fast it’s annoying. "That’s… a lot.”
Anakin nods quickly, already emotional. "Yeah. Yeah, it’s insane.”
Padmé laughs weakly, tears slipping down her temples into her hair. Anakin’s laugh wobbles. He leans down and presses his forehead to her shoulder.
"I’m sorry,” he murmurs, then immediately corrects, voice thick. "No, I’m not sorry. I’m—”
Padmé reaches up, fingers tangling in his damp curls. "Anakin.”
He lifts his head, eyes shining. "Two babies,” he says again, like he needs to hear it out loud to believe it. "We’re gonna be so outnumbered.”
The tech keeps pointing things out, words that sound far away because Padmé is stuck on the fact that there are two tiny heartbeats pulsing on the screen, two little flickers of life that are hers.
Anakin wipes at his face like he’s annoyed by the tears, then immediately grabs Padmé’s hand and squeezes like he’s trying to fuse himself to her.
"You’re okay,” he says, voice low, urgent, like he’s not just asking but needing to know. "You’re okay, right?”
Padmé nods, because she is—she’s overwhelmed, she’s terrified, she’s already thinking about how she’s going to fit two infants into their apartment and still have enough sanity to breathe—but underneath it, there’s this blooming warmth that’s almost dizzying.
She looks at the screen again.
Two.
Padmé is six months pregnant when Anakin comes home acting weird. Well, not weird at first.
"How’re my favorite roommates?” he asks, kicking off his shoes.
Padmé raises an eyebrow. "You can’t call them your favorite roommates. They still haven’t paid rent.”
"They’re working on it,” he protests, coming over to lean down and kiss her. He presses one hand to her belly as he does. "Soon as they’re out I’m putting little sticks in their hands and starting training immediately.”
"Absolutely not,” she says against his mouth.
"Baby Bruins,” he insists.
Then Padmé has the audacity to ask about his day and he starts stammering. Not in the fun way.
In the I-have-news-and-I’m-trying-not-to-spook-you way—which is, in Padmé’s opinion, a hilarious miscalculation, because if there’s one thing pregnancy has given her (besides heartburn and an appetite for oranges), it’s a complete intolerance for nonsense.
He’s smiling, but it’s not his usual smug, cocky grin.
It’s… cautious.
Padmé narrows her eyes immediately. "What did you do.”
His mouth twitches like he’s trying not to smile.
"Spit it out.”
He exhales, sets his keys down like he’s bracing himself, and walks in slowly. "Okay,” he says. "So. There’s this girl—”
Padmé’s eyebrows shoot up.
She sits up straighter. "Oh my god. Should I be jealous?”
Anakin stops dead.
His eyes go wide immediately and Padmé almost has to laugh. "What? No—Padmé—no.”
Padmé holds her hands up. "I’m kidding. Mostly.”
Anakin squints at her. "Mostly?”
Padmé shrugs, serene. "I’m six months pregnant. My hormones are basically running the government right now. So… say it again. There’s a girl?”
Anakin makes a noise of pure exasperation. "A girl like—an actual girl. Like seventeen.”
Padmé blinks.
Then her face resets into something more normal. "Okay. And?”
Anakin visibly relaxes, as if her not immediately launching herself off the couch to fight someone was a relief.
He starts pacing, which is how Padmé knows this matters. Anakin doesn’t pace unless he’s anxious, excited, or trying very hard not to look like he’s about to do something insane.
"She’s… ridiculous,” he says. "In a good way.”
Padmé watches him like she’s studying tape. "Uh-huh.”
"She’s playing for this girls’ program in town—St. Bridget’s,” he says, like he’s reciting a fact sheet. "But she’s also playing up with the boys’ team. Like, full-time.”
Padmé’s brows rise. "At seventeen?”
"Yeah,” Anakin says, already getting worked up. "And she’s not just holding her own, she’s—Padmé, she’s good. She’s fast, she’s fearless, she’s got hands like—like she’s been doing this since she was born. And she hits like a truck. Like an angry little—”
"Anakin,” Padmé cuts in, amused. "Are you pitching me a player or adopting a puppy.”
He sighs like he’s giving up on the dance. "Her name is Ahsoka Tano,” he says, finally. "She’s here from out of state. California, I think. She moved for hockey.”
Padmé’s expression softens a little. "Okay.”
"And the Bruins did this youth thing today,” Anakin continues. "Mentorship. Meet-and-greet. Whatever. And she was there.”
Padmé hums. "And you… did what. Impressed her with your charm?”
"She roasted me,” Anakin scoffs. Padmé makes a delighted little sound.
"Anyway, I asked why she’s playing both programs because, like, that’s a lot. And she said it’s because she has to stay sharp. And then—” He stops, scrubs a hand over his face. "Then her coach pulled me aside.”
Padmé’s smile fades just slightly, attention sharpening. "Oh.”
Anakin nods once, like he’s bracing. "Yeah.”
Padmé sits up again. "Anakin, what are you asking?”
He opens his mouth.
Closes it.
Padmé exhales slowly through her nose. "Oh my god.”
Anakin winces. "Don’t do that.”
"Do what.”
"That tone,” he says. "Like I’m about to bring home a stray.”
Padmé stares at him. "Are you about to bring home a stray?”
Anakin throws his hands up. "She’s not a stray!”
Padmé points at him again. "Anakin.”
He takes a breath and finally says, "Do you know what a billet family is?”
Padmé blinks. Then, slowly: "Yes.”
Anakin pauses, clearly not expecting that. "You do?”
Padmé nods. "I’ve heard of it. For junior programs. For athletes who move to train and need housing. They live with a family. Like… host families.”
Anakin’s shoulders drop a fraction.
"Yeah,” he says. "That.”
Padmé watches him carefully. "Okay.”
Anakin’s jaw tightens. He looks… bothered. Protective.
"They don’t have one for her,” he says quietly. "Not right now.”
Padmé’s expression stills.
"She’s staying with her assistant coach’s cousin,” Anakin continues, voice edged. "In Quincy. On a pull-out couch. It’s… temporary. And it’s not great.”
Padmé’s chest tightens in that way it does now—quicker, easier. Pregnancy has made her soft in the most inconvenient places.
"How do you know it’s not great?” she asks.
Anakin grimaces. "Because she tried to play it off and then her coach told me the actual version. She’s commuting an hour each way. Sometimes more. She’s missing team lifts because she literally can’t get there. She’s eating—like, she said dinner last night was cereal because she didn’t want to ask for anything.”
Padmé’s face twists. "Oh.”
Anakin nods. "Yeah.”
Padmé sits back, one hand automatically finding her belly like she’s grounding herself. "And the coach told you this because…?”
Anakin gives her a look. "He asked if I knew anyone who’d be willing to billet.”
Padmé goes quiet.
Anakin steps closer to the couch, finally stopping the pacing. He perches on the edge of the coffee table.
"I didn’t say yes,” he says quickly. "I didn’t promise anything. I just—” He exhales hard. "I told him I’d talk to you.”
Padmé watches him. Watches the way he’s trying so hard to do this right—like he knows the instinct in him is to just fix it without asking, and he’s fighting that because he respects her.
"Anakin,” Padmé says carefully, "are you asking if we can take in a seventeen-year-old hockey prodigy.”
Anakin’s eyes soften immediately. "Yeah,” he admits. "Kind of.”
Padmé’s mouth twitches. "That’s insane.”
Anakin nods like he knows. "I know.”
Padmé stares at him for a long beat. "We are about to have a baby. Two babies”
"I know,” Anakin repeats, voice gentle.
Padmé gestures at her stomach. "There are two whole humans in here.”
Anakin’s gaze drops automatically, his hand reaching out like it’s muscle memory. He rests his palm over her belly, warm and careful. "I’m aware,” he says, soft.
Padmé’s throat tightens again, stupidly. "So why are you—”
"Because,” Anakin cuts in, and something sharp flickers in his eyes, "she’s a kid. She’s alone. She’s trying so hard. And I keep thinking about—”
He stops himself.
Padmé’s voice goes quieter. "About you.”
Anakin swallows. His thumb rubs a small circle over her hoodie where it stretches over her stomach. "Yeah.”
Padmé watches him, heart squeezing because she knows that look. She knows the exact place his mind is going.
Small town. Pull-out couch. Living out of a bag. Adult world. Big dreams. No safety net.
Obi-Wan’s couch.
Padmé exhales slowly. "Okay,” she says.
Anakin’s head snaps up. "Okay?”
Padmé holds up a finger. "Not yes. Not yet. Okay as in: I’m listening.”
Two weeks later and still six months pregnant, she meets Ahsoka Tano for the first time.
Which is important, because six months pregnant means Padmé has reached the phase where she’s not interested in performing politeness like a sport.
It also means her patience is shorter, her emotions are closer to the surface, and her ability to see right through Anakin’s bullshit has somehow become even more lethal.
They meet at a rink—a local one tucked between a strip mall and a brick community center.
Anakin holds the door for her like he always does now—hand on the small of her back as she waddles in in a way he insists is cute.
When she steps into the rink, the air hits her immediately—cold and familiar, sharp enough to wake her up from the weird fog pregnancy brings. Blades scrape somewhere down the ice. A whistle echoes. A girl laughs
Padmé follows the sound.
Ahsoka is at center ice, helmet off, hair in two long braids. She’s talking to her coach with her skates still on, animated hands cutting through the air.
She’s short, shorter than Padmé expected but all restless energy. Her cheeks are flushed. There’s a bruise blooming on her chin like a badge of honor.
Padmé watches her for a few minutes, letting the rhythm of practice sink into her bones—the repetition, the focus, the way Ahsoka’s face is all sharp concentration between bursts of cocky joy. She’s clearly exhausted and also clearly thriving. There’s something bright in her, something hungry.
Padmé understands hungry.
She understands wanting something so badly you build your whole life around it.
When Ahsoka looks up, her gaze lands on Anakin first, and she grins, wide and unguarded.
Then her gaze slides to Padmé.
Her grin shifts into something more curious. More cautious.
Padmé can practically see her doing the mental math: Olympic-level skater, pregnant woman, am I in trouble, is this an interview, should I say ma’am?
The coach gives her a little push that sends her gliding into their direction. "Oh—hi. You’re—”
"Padmé,” Padmé says, offering her hand. "Hi.”
Ahsoka hesitates for half a second—then shakes her hand, grip firm.
"Hi,” Ahsoka says again, like she’s not sure which version of herself is supposed to show up right now. "I’ve… heard a lot about you.”
Padmé glances sideways at Anakin. "Have you.”
Anakin’s face is innocent in a way that is very suspicious. "What? I talk.”
Ahsoka’s eyes flick between them, then she smiles. "He talks a lot.”
Padmé smiles. "That’s true.”
Ahsoka brightens, clearly relieved that Padmé is not, in fact, terrifying in person—at least not immediately.
"So,” Padmé says, keeping her voice gentle but direct, because that’s who she is and because she refuses to do the awkward dance around anything important. "Anakin told me a bit about your situation.”
Ahsoka’s posture stiffens, just a fraction. It’s subtle. Defensive in that way kids get when they’re trying not to seem like they need anything.
"I’m fine,” Ahsoka says quickly.
Anakin opens his mouth.
Padmé lifts a finger without looking at him.
She focuses on Ahsoka instead. "I’m not here to interrogate you,” she says, calm. "And I’m not here to make you feel like you owe us gratitude or anything weird like that. But if we do this—if you’re gonna come live with us—you need to understand that there are gonna be two babies in the house very soon.”
Anakin watches Ahsoka like he’s waiting to see if she flinches. Like this is the moment that decides everything.
Ahsoka doesn’t flinch.
Her eyes light up.
Like someone just told her Christmas was coming early.
"Oh my god,” she breathes, utterly earnest. "You’re having a baby?”
Padmé blinks, caught off guard by the enthusiasm. "Yes. Two. Twins.”
Ahsoka grins so wide it’s almost ridiculous. "I love babies.”
Anakin pauses. "You—what?”
"I love babies,” Ahsoka repeats, like this is obvious. "They’re tiny and angry and loud and they just—exist. It’s hilarious. My aunt used to dump my cousins on me all the time. I’m good with them.”
Padmé stares at her for a beat too long. "You’re… seventeen.”
Ahsoka nods. "Yeah.”
Padmé’s eyes narrow. "You’re sure you’re not saying that because you think it’s what we want to hear.”
Ahsoka’s face turns dead serious, like she’s offended Padmé would even suggest it. "No. I’m saying it because it’s true. Babies are like—tiny angry aliens but in a cute way. And they do that thing where they grab your finger and you’re like—” She makes a small fist dramatically. "I would die for you. I—” Then, like the thought hits her mid-sentence, Ahsoka’s expression sobers. "Wait,” she says. "Like… would I bother you?”
Padmé’s face softens. "No,” she says immediately. "You won’t bother us.”
Ahsoka’s eyes narrow a little, suspicious in a way that says she’s had adults say nice things and then not mean them.
Padmé holds her gaze. "But you do need to understand that the house might be chaotic sometimes. There will be crying. There will be weird hours. There will be Anakin trying to become a human swaddle machine.”
Anakin’s brows shoot up. "I’m going to be great at swaddling.”
Padmé deadpans. "You can’t even fold a fitted sheet.”
"That’s different.”
Ahsoka giggles, then says, very seriously, "I can swaddle. I’m good at it.”
It is, objectively, weird to be responsible for a teenager at twenty-four.
There are moments Padmé stands in her kitchen, belly resting against the counter, watching Ahsoka do homework while Anakin ices his shoulder after practice and thinks, This is the strangest version of adulthood I could’ve imagined.
It’s weird the first time Ahsoka moves in and Padmé hears the sound of someone else in their apartment—someone who isn’t Anakin—someone who opens cabinets too loudly and eats cereal straight from the box.
It’s weird the first time Padmé hears Anakin say, in a stern voice she’s only ever heard on the ice, "Ahsoka. Shoes. Not on the couch.”
It’s weird the first time Ahsoka comes home from practice mad and silent, slams her bag down, and Padmé has to do the thing she’s good at—sit down beside her, steady and calm, and ask what happened without prying.
The first time Padmé realizes she’s googling "teenage girl nutrition for athletes” at midnight while Anakin snores beside her like a content golden retriever.
The first time Ahsoka asks—casual, pretending she doesn’t care—if Padmé can come watch her game next weekend.
And Padmé, without missing a beat, says yes.
Anakin hears it from the kitchen and yells, "I’m coming too.”
Ahsoka yells back, "Obviously.” And then, softer, like she forgets to keep her guard up: "Cool.”
It’s strange. And a little terrifying. And somehow it fits.
Padmé is exactly nine months pregnant when the twins decide they’re done waiting.
It starts at 2:17 AM with Padmé waking up because she has to pee for what feels like the eighty-seventh time that night, and the second she swings her legs out of bed she pauses—hand braced on the mattress, brow pinched.
Because something feels different.
Anakin is asleep beside her, dead to the world, one arm flung over her pillow. He came back late from his game yesterday and all of his post-win adrenaline kept him up until—Padmé checks the time again—yeah, exactly an hour ago.
Now he’s out cold and for a single second Padmé feels bad about waking him.
Instead, she stands there for a beat, hand on her belly, waiting.
The tightening comes again, sharper this time. She closes her eyes and exhales through it, a slow controlled breath like she’s back on the ice and trying not to let her body panic.
When it passes, she opens her eyes and looks down at Anakin.
Her brief hesitation is over immediately.
She leans down and very calmly says, "Ani.”
No response.
"Ani.”
Still nothing.
Padmé inhales.
Then, louder: "Anakin.”
He does that little snort men do when they wake up too fast, like his soul got yanked back into his body without warning. His eyes crack open, unfocused and bleary, hair sticking up on one side.
"M’wake,” he mumbles, voice thick with sleep.
Padmé’s face doesn’t change. She just looks at him.
Anakin blinks at her. Blinks again.
Then his eyes drop—down her body, to the way she’s braced, the way her hand is pressed to her belly like she’s holding something together.
His whole expression shifts in an instant.
"What,” he says, already pushing himself upright, sudden and alert like a switch flipped. "What’s wrong.”
Padmé swallows.
"Nothing’s wrong,” she says, too calm on purpose. "But I think it’s happening.”
Anakin freezes for exactly one heartbeat.
Then he’s moving.
"Okay—okay,” he says, scrambling out of bed so fast he nearly gets tangled in the sheets. He fumbles his footing, catches himself on the dresser, and Padmé watches him with that strange mix of affection and disbelief she’s had all month.
"What do you need?” he asks, already halfway to her, hands hovering.
Padmé exhales. "I need you to breathe.”
Anakin’s chest rises and falls, fast. "I am breathing.”
"You’re panicking.”
"I’m not panicking,” he lies, eyes huge.
Another contraction hits, and Padmé’s fingers tighten on her belly.
Her face stays composed—she refuses to let her body make her look weak—but her breath catches anyway.
Anakin sees it.
"Oh my god,” he whispers, like he’s in awe. Then, louder, urgent: "Okay. Hospital. We’re going to the hospital. We’re—where’s the bag? The bag is—”
"The bag is by the door,” Padmé says. She’s had it packed for two weeks. Anakin stares at her like she’s a goddess.
"I worship you,” he says immediately, then spins and nearly trips over his own feet.
Padmé, with all the patience of a woman who has been pregnant for what feels like forty straight years, shuffles toward the hallway.
"Ahsoka,” she calls, voice sharper now.
From down the hall, a muffled thump. Then a confused, sleepy voice: "What—?”
"Ahsoka,” Padmé repeats, louder. "Time.”
There’s a beat.
Then the guest room door flies open like there’s been a fire.
Ahsoka appears with her hair in a messy bun, hoodie on backwards, eyes wide and immediately alert. She looks at Padmé once—just once—and her whole posture snaps into place.
"Oh,” Ahsoka says, breathless. "Oh my god. Is it—”
Padmé nods. "Yeah.”
Ahsoka’s face lights up with pure, unfiltered joy.
Next thing Padmé knows, she’s in the passenger seat of her own car, breathing through contractions, one hand braced on the door, the other gripping Anakin’s forearm so hard he’s going to have bruises shaped like her fingers.
Anakin drives like he’s on a mission, jaw set, both hands on the wheel.
Ahsoka sits in the back seat, phone in hand, scrolling frantically.
"I’m reading a list,” she announces, voice tight. "Things not to say to a woman in labor.”
Padmé manages, "Good.”
Ahsoka clears her throat and reads: "'You’re doing great’ is okay. 'Almost there’ is okay. 'Can you stop screaming’ is not okay.”
Anakin’s voice is strangled. "Would anyone say that?”
Ahsoka’s eyes go wide. "Apparently yes.”
Padmé huffs. "If you say that, I’ll kill you.”
Then there are bright lights and clipped voices and a nurse who looks at Padmé with immediate competence, like she’s seen this exact moment a thousand times and isn’t impressed by Anakin’s panic at all. Anakin holds Padmé’s hand so tightly she’s pretty sure he’s cutting off circulation.
Ahsoka is gently herded out.
"Family can wait right here,” a nurse says kindly, guiding her to a row of chairs.
Time becomes strange after that. It stretches and compresses in ways Padmé can’t track. There’s effort and focus and hands and voices. There’s Anakin’s face, right there, anchoring her—eyes fierce, voice low, unwavering.
And then—
Then there are babies.
Two tiny cries. Two tiny weights. Two brand-new lives.
Padmé is exhausted down to her bones, but the second she hears them, she is wide awake.
@anakinskywalker
📍Boston, MA
off day. 🖤
📸 [Photo: Padmé and Ahsoka sitting on a big cream rug in the living room. Padmé’s in sweats and an old Harvard hoodie, hair in a messy clip, smiling down at one twin tucked against her thigh. Ahsoka’s cross-legged beside her in a Bruins tee and flannel pajama pants, bottle in one hand, the other twin sprawled across her lap.]
❤️ 261K 💬 3,532 🔁 4,987
@Bruins ✅
OFF DAY FOR YOU MAYBE WE HAVE 40 EMAILS TO ANSWER
↳ @anakinskywalker ✅: I believe in you.
↳ @bostonbarstool: bruinsmin is about to be put on LTIR
↳ @Cellyseason: bruisnmin rn typing with one hand and deleting 900 replies with the other
↳ @Rinkratreform: 40 emails is CRAZY because it’s been 4 minutes
↳ @Livluvslattes: bruinsmin blinking like 😃 while the inbox is on fire
↳ @bruins ✅: please be respectful we are fighting for our lives
@padme.naberrie ✅: you’re lucky i look cute from this angle
↳ @anakin.skywalker ✅: you look cute from every angle
↳ @padme.naberrie ✅: don’t start. i’m armed with spit-up rags.
@nhl ✅: casually dropping a whole new roster mid-season
@usahockey ✅: Welcome to the team, Skywalker twins. (Paperwork forthcoming.)
@UofCoruscantOfficial ✅: 🚨 BREAKING: Former Hawks Captain Anakin Skywalker has apparently been quietly building an entire team off the ice.
Also: tell Padmé her "off day” still looks like honor roll. ❤️🏒✨
↳ @padme.naberrie ✅: i’m on the floor, please be serious
↳ @Campusspotterz: THE WAY THIS SCHOOL HAS NEVER STOPPED BEING THEIR PUBLICIST 😭
@coruscanthawks ✅: EXCUSE ME????????? We blinked and you became a whole family. Congrats, Captain.
↳@anakin.skywalker ✅: miss u losers
↳ @coruscanthawks ✅: we miss you too (derogatory)
@fives.domino ✅: cool. next time maybe drop a text.
↳ @anakin.skywalker ✅: i literally told you
↳ @fives.domino ✅: you told me "big things happening” and then sent me a photo of a car seat with no context. i thought you bought a weird chair.
↳ @jesse.jets ✅: IM CRYING "a weird chair”
↳ @rex.the.wall ✅: i knew. 😌
organas_skating ✅: Our favorite power couple just expanded their roster. 🖤 Congrats, Padmé + Anakin.
↳ ahsoka.tano: can confirm: roster is loud
↳ organas_skating ✅: we have noted this for future training camps.
@Sabéknowsbest: Finally. I’ve been holding this secret like it was classified government intel.
@Dormesworld: The way I had to lie to people’s faces for MONTHS
@Bruinsburner: wait. WAIT. padmé was pregnant??? we all just… missed an entire pregnancy????
@Puckprofessor: Okay but who is the fourth person????
@Allcapsgoalhorn: the bruins PR team is somewhere sweating bc they def knew and now it looks like they’re complicit in the greatest secret of all time
@Skateandshade: that baby looking at the camera has padmé’s "i will legislate you into the sun” expression
@Detectivehockeymom: Is that Ahsoka Tano who plays for the Boston U19 and also practices with the men’s junior league??? IS SHE LIVING WITH THE SKYWALKERS?????
↳ @bruins ✅: Please do not speculate about minors.
@Anakinskywalkerfans: im sorry but imagine being 17 and your billet family is "hi this is my hot NHL husband and i’m an olympic skater also here are our twins” I WOULD PASS OUT
@Bruins4life88: BRO HE SAID "off day.” SIR THAT IS OFFSPRING
@Goalieproblems: anakin skywalker: off day. internet: emergency broadcast system alarm
@HockeyRumorsDaily: I repeat: PADMÉ AMIDALA AND ANAKIN SKYWALKER HAVE TWINS?? TWINS?? AND THEY HID IT FOR MONTHS??
↳ @sportslawyerjen: legally that’s their right you maniac
@Nhlonnbc: Bruins alternate captain Anakin Skywalker has been raising two humans and still put up 42 goals this season. Incredible.
@Bruinsmemes: skywalker said "surprise here's two whole children anyway see you at morning skate”
@Tano4captain: AHSOKA BEING PART OF THE SKYWALKER FAMILY IS LIKE ADOPTING A BABY TIGER AND REALIZING IT’S ACTUALLY BETTER AT EVERYTHING THAN YOU
@puckanalyst:: We all owe Ahsoka $20 for emotional labor, she is clearly the backbone of that household
@bruins ✅
We love our guys and their families.
We also love not answering 4,000 DMs asking for baby names, baby jerseys, or baby season tickets.
Please respect player and family privacy. 💛🖤
↳ @bostonwintergirl
bruisnmin i’m bringing you soup
↳ @bruins ✅
thank you. i’m going to lie down in the snow now.
↳ @cellyseason
"lie down in the snow” is the most boston response possible
↳ @bruins ✅
it’s all i know