Control The Uncontrollable // The Acolyte

99. My Husband

The wind rolled gently across the hillside, carrying the scent of damp earth and pine, and you pulled the black cloak tighter around your shoulders. It dwarfed you, Qimir's old cloak, but you liked the weight of it—the way the hood shielded your face from the breeze as you sat cross-legged in the grass, pen in hand, your journal resting across your thighs.

You'd been writing quietly for the last hour, only half-aware of the rhythmic sound of Qimir's work nearby. The steady thunk of the axe splitting wood. The occasional scrape of something being dragged or stacked. It grounded you, like a heartbeat, anchoring your thoughts as you recorded whatever flickered through your mind.

Then, silence.

You didn't look up at first. Just paused, your pen hovering over the page. Stillness. No wind. No sound. No swing of the axe.

Your eyes lifted, cautious, only to find him staring at you from the clearing. Shirt clinging to him with sweat, a hand resting lazily on the axe handle. His head tilted just slightly, brow creased like he was watching something rare.

"...Why did you stop?" you asked, voice soft but audible.

A beat.

"Because the Force told me to," Qimir said, almost too seriously.

You blinked, unimpressed. "Really."

He nodded solemnly, lips twitching. "It told me to stop and take in all the beauty around me."

You arched one brow. Slowly.

Then the other.

He grinned. "I'm just following orders."

You shook your head, looking back down at your page as your hood shifted slightly. "The Force doesn't define beauty."

Your pen moved again, even as you heard his footsteps approaching through the grass.

"No," he said from above you, voice low, smug and still somehow soft. "But I definitely do."

You let out a breath—not quite a laugh, not quite a sigh—and lifted your eyes just as he looked down at you, warmth in every line of his face. He was flushed from work, dirt on his hands, a scratch on his arm, and yet he looked entirely content.

"And I feel like I'll be doing all the hard work while you just sit there," he added, nudging you gently with his elbow as he plopped down beside you.

You snorted. "You look very good doing it."

He chuckled, leaning back on his hands, eyes glinting as he glanced sideways at you.
"'The Force doesn't define beauty,'" he echoed in your voice, lacing it with mock-seriousness, exaggerated drama, and something undeniably affectionate.

You rolled your eyes, but the soft curve at the corner of your mouth betrayed you.
Qimir caught it instantly. Smirked—pleased. And without hesitation, he slipped an arm around your waist, drawing you in like it was second nature. You didn't resist. He always held you like he meant it.