(Some things come in pairs, whether you like it or not, and luckily, Leia minds the Falcon less and less as time goes on. Either she's starting to see its charms, helped along by its owner, or she's been trapped on it so long, she doesn't remember what a decent ship is like.)

"Don't you--" she starts, even before he manages to come up with a Worshipfulness or Highnessness or whatever mess of a title he'd reach for in his current state. But he doesn't continue, and she doesn't, either; she'd much rather hear what he thinks of earthier matters than titles.

She lets her hand slide down his back as far as she can reach, her fingernails rising and falling over the knobs of his spine. Her other hand drifts towards the short hairs at the back of his neck, her hips rising to meet his. Small touches, light caresses, all in the vague pursuit of drawing more sound from him.