The Jedi temple was burning.

Padmé Amidala stood on her apartment balcony, watching the smoke billow out the towers of the once-proud structure. Her belly, swollen with pregnancy, pressed close to the railing as she craned her neck, intent on seeing something, anything, that might suggest Jedi lived. Even biting hard on her lower lip, Padmé was unable to prevent hot tears from spilling out of her eyes.

The entirety of her body trembled with one singular, desperate desire: the desire for her husband. She wanted him more than she ever wanted anything in her life. He's alive, he has to be alive. He can't die, not before he's met our baby. The thoughts swirled in Padmé's head, but the logical part of her brain recognized the truth. The universe was cruel; the universe didn't care about him, or her, or anyone. How many lives had the war claimed already? How many fathers never got to hold their newborn children in their arms, just like-

No. She refused to acknowledge the possibility. Anakin wasn't like the other Jedi. He would be coming up the stairs any moment now, throwing his arms around her and proclaiming his love for her in between kisses. No matter what happened, they would get through it. Together.

Padmé shut her eyes tight and allowed her lungs to fill with air. Anakin would survive. He was Jedi General Anakin Skywalker, the Chosen One, the Hero with No Fear.

He was her husband.