He watched her as she sat down with a sigh in front of her datapad. Her deep brown eyes seemed a bit weary – the New Republic, as usual, was in a state of crisis – but the fullness of her cheeks made him smile to himself. She grumbled about the ten pounds she'd held onto since the twins' birth, but he didn't. She looked the way she did when he'd first met her when the multiple hurts of the war hadn't yet left her thin and haunted. He considered that ten pounds a sign that his wife's injured soul had recovered and, even more, a sign that she was content. He certainly was; he was so content that a few weeks back he'd had to talk himself out of a midnight terror about still being trapped in carbonite and only dreaming about the miracle that was his life now.
She looked up from her datapad, seeing her husband's eyes on her, and looked at him quizzically. "What?"
"I'm just looking at perfection," he replied.
"Perfection," she snorted as she got up to join him on the couch. "I can't even talk the Telarians out of mining the Buscka Nebula."
"Oh well," he sighed, pulling her into his embrace. "I guess you're not perfect then after all."
Looking up and feeling the thrill she always felt when his love was so plainly written on his face, she replied. "I know that look. It's the look that ends up with me pregnant."
"Well, we've already taken care of that," he said, running a hand over the barely-perceptible bump of her abdomen that guaranteed those ten pounds weren't going anywhere soon and luxuriating in the feeling of her soft breath on his chest.
"Hey Princess—" he said softly, looking down at her.
"I know," she smiled.
He nodded. "So do I."
Han Solo was not given to introspection, but in the moment before their lips met, he considered that knowing what they both knew was the greatest feeling in the galaxy.