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It's too cold for such a temperate planet.
Obi-Wan has been bitterly turning this thought over in his mind since they'd made camp just a few hours ago. The sun is now somewhere else, out of sight, dipped down below the horizon. It's taken all its warmth with it, and now the forest clearing is lit by nothing more than the half moon above their heads.
Satine sits across from him, and if Obi-Wan closes his eyes and pretends, he can almost imagine there's a small campfire in between them, seeping the heat they so desperately need into their bones. For the first hour, he'd done just that, but then the darkness had settled in and closing his eyes was worse, somehow.
So now he's staring at the loose leaves and twigs beneath his crossed legs, trying his very best not to drink in the sight of Satine huddled in his thick cloak with the hood pulled up over her head. Obi-Wan's cheeks are flushed pink enough as it is.
Pulling the sleeves of his tunic farther past his knuckles, Obi-Wan tries to suppress a shiver, but Satine still looks up and casts him a guilty look. He's just starting to shake his head to tell her that it's fine, keep the cloak — when she speaks.
"Are you quite sure you don't want this back?" Satine asks, her breath making a cloud in front of her chapped lips.
"Yes, you're far colder than I am," Obi-Wan replies softly. "It's alright. I've got my tunic."
"So have I," Satine counters, crossing her arms. The cloak slips past her shoulders just a bit, and she fumbles to pull it back up, shivering as she does so. Even as she returns the hood back to its place atop her head, she frowns and says, "Wouldn't you say it's unfair that I've got a cloak and you haven't?"
"You're the one who's wearing mine."
"You're the one who offered."
Obi-Wan simply rolls his eyes and pulls his knees to his chest. "The least you could do is act grateful."
Satine gives a rather undignified snort, and Obi-Wan looks up to see her shaking her head in disdain as several golden curls escape from under the hood. "It's a bit hard when you're sitting there shivering like a newborn loth-kitten."
"Sorry, would you rather I'd move over there, Your Highness?" Obi-Wan asks scathingly, jerking his chin to the cluster of dark trees around them.
To this, Satine gives no answer, only an annoyed scoff. She turns away slightly, pulling the cloak tighter around her shoulders, and Obi-Wan has the sudden urge to snatch it from her and take it all for himself. It's his, anyway — but that would be what Qui-Gon would call most improper. Besides, Obi-Wan reasons, he's the one who's been assigned to protect her.
And since Qui-Gon is still gathering information in the nearby city, Obi-Wan is technically the only person keeping Satine safe.
He scrubs a cold, tired hand over his face, dimly aware of the stubble beginning to grow on his cheeks, and sighs. A small cloud of his breath forms in front of him.
"You know," Satine whispers suddenly, making Obi-Wan look up, "we could always just share."
Obi-Wan raises his eyebrows. "Share...?"
"The cloak," Satine says, as though it's the most obvious thing in the galaxy. "It's big, isn't it? Even on you."
Blinking in surprise, Obi-Wan stares at her, at the slight frame tucked into his very own cloak, at the ice blue eyes that never seem to dim, no matter how dark it gets. Satine's pale cheeks are flushed — from the cold, Obi-Wan assures himself, and nothing else — and a loose curl is rustling in the freezing air.
Despite her offer, Obi-Wan stays put. A crease appears between Satine's eyebrows and she scoots forward.
"You never think of yourself," she points out. "Only others."
"Well, that's..." Obi-Wan shrugs. "That's what a Jedi is supposed to do." He tries to focus on his words, on the puff of visible air they release as they leave his mouth; he tries to focus on his hands, both of which are keeping his knees close to his chest. But she's closer to him than before, even if it's just by a little bit, and maybe it's all in Obi-Wan's head — but the air around him seems warmer.
More like home.
But that's silly, because his home is not this forest or this planet or this girl sitting in front of him who he only met a month ago. Obi-Wan's home is the Jedi Temple, is Qui-Gon, is his quarters on Coruscant with the open window that lets in a breeze.
His chest clenches with homesickness, like a pinprick that sends air rushing out of his lungs by the second. Another sigh, another cloud of air. How much harm can it do, Obi-Wan wonders, if all they're doing is trying to keep warm?
Satine is just as close as she was mere seconds ago, but somehow Obi-Wan's silent concession makes her feel too close. Just a breath away. He closes his eyes for a moment, then opens them again to find Satine's hand centimeters from his own. His fingers twitch.
It's like a holomovie. Watching with bated breath, wondering who will make the first move, who will strike before the other.
In the end, it's him. Obi-Wan reaches out, surprising even himself, and when he folds his hand in hers, it's like an answer to Satine's silent question.
An answer that makes way for what Satine does next. She rises to her knees and slips one arm out of the sleeve, then wraps the empty side of the cloak around Obi-Wan's shoulders before settling comfortably next to him. Their arms are pressed together, and Satine's knees are resting on Obi-Wan's thigh. It's the closest they've been since they've met.
(It's also the longest they've been separated from Qui-Gon, but Obi-Wan chooses to ignore that intrusive thought.)
Then Satine breaks the barrier. She pulls her hand away, and just as Obi-Wan thinks she's going to move back to her spot across from him, Satine laces their fingers together. It's much more intimate than the simple hand-holding they were doing before; now their hands are intertwined, resting between the two of them.
It's a quick movement, Obi-Wan realizes. Almost no effort needed.
So he raises his other hand and pulls the other end of the cloak tighter around Satine's shoulder. They're closer, now, and Obi-Wan lets his hand rise to rest on her mussed-up curls. It's gentle, but suddenly Satine's cheek is resting against the exposed skin just above the collar of his tunic.
He swallows nervously. Wills his hand to stop sweating. He's half considering pulling away when Satine speaks again.
Her words are so quiet that Obi-Wan has to lean closer, even when Satine's cheek is pressed into his chest and his hand is gripping hers. He feels her breath fan on his chest, sees her lips move, but her words are lost to the midnight breeze.
Now with his ear just above her mouth, Obi-Wan breathes, "What?"
She clears her throat softly, then straightens, adjusting both of their positions but keeping their fingers intertwined. This time, when she says them, Satine's words are more clear: "Tell me a story."
Obi-Wan blinks. "A story?" he asks. "About what?"
Satine shrugs the shoulder that isn't pressed against his own. Obi-Wan frowns, flipping over the memory cards stored away in his head, and finally lands on one that he isn't even sure he remembers all too well.
He draws in a deep breath. "I tried to run away from the Temple once," he blurts, and immediately feels his cheeks flush. It's a stupid story, more confusing than funny, and he only knows it because his créche master told him —
But Satine is smiling against his chest, so Obi-Wan clears his throat and continues. "I think I was around four standard," he says. "I don't remember it, but my créche master said it was because I didn't like the food."
"I wouldn't have pegged you as a picky eater," Satine muses softly. Obi-Wan is painfully aware of how she's absent-mindedly running her thumb across his knuckles.
"I'm not," Obi-Wan assures firmly. "At least, not anymore. Apparently the stew was so awful I spilled it all over the table and ran through the entire Temple... one of the guards found me eventually, and brought me back." He smiles wanly, remembering the halls of the Temple he grew up in. "That incident became a subject of teasing for some time after that."
It's a pathetic story, Obi-Wan thinks; hardly detailed and a mere repetition of what his créche master has teased him about more times than he can count.
Still, he feels Satine breathe a laugh as she shifts her position again, this time tucking her head into the crook of his neck. "That's adorable."
Obi-Wan hums in placid agreement, willing himself to stay still again. Satine's breath tickles his collarbone, but he can't bring himself to mind, because she seems more at peace, now, even if it's only by a little bit.
"It sounds wonderful," Satine murmurs. "Living in the temple, I mean."
Slowly, Obi-Wan runs his fingers through her hair, hardly thinking about the movement of his hand. "It is."
When she speaks again, still clutching his hand, her breath is still warm. But the words are cold, sending chills down Obi-Wan's spine as Satine breathes a simple sentence against his chest.
"I want to go home."
He wants to give her the simple answer, wants to tell her that she can't, because why else would they be here, in a cold, empty clearing in the forests of Draboon, huddled together with nothing to do but hope that their body warmth is enough to last them through the night? But he does not bother with such trivial words as these, because Satine already knows — perhaps better than Obi-Wan does — that going home is the very last thing either of them can do.
So instead of giving her the truth, Obi-Wan just dips his head down so their cheeks are touching, squeezes her hand just a little bit tighter, and whispers, "Me too."