The breath she draws in at the sound of her name is a shaky one; it sounds like something new when he murmurs it, looking at her like he might forget the shape of her face if he doesn't. She's doing the same, taking in the set of his mouth and the light in his pale eyes. It's a sort of staring she tolerates far more easily, this mutual admiration in the wake of a kiss.

The wine can wait when he's so interested in kissing her breathless. We can drink it after, she thinks, the idea as intoxicating as any liquor. There'll be an after, with wine or without, curled up with Han in this damnably small bunk.

One of Leia's hands disappears into his hair, her fingers splayed out over his scalp. As for the other...well, she might be shy, but she's also eager, once the spotlight isn't solely on her. And this part, at least, is familiar. She pulls blindly at the tails of his shirt, with none of the patience that befits a princess. As soon as a hand's breadth of hem is free, she reaches up it, pressing her palm flat against his stomach.