"If you have to," she teases, with an affected little sigh, her hands falling back to her lap. The wine's role in the night's activities is receding, and that's probably for the best; it's a good vintage, one that's likely to go to her head if they get too far into the bottle. And as pleasant a thought as that could be under other circumstances, she'd like to have all her wits about her right now.

After--after--it'll be a nice thing to return to. She's certain of that much.

While he sets the wine down, one of her hands curls around the waistband of his trousers, her knuckles beneath the fabric, brushing against his hip. He might need both hands, but Leia's not letting him get too far away from her.