In seven years she's never taken another lover. There had been offers here and there and times that a proposition was almost brash enough to be tempting.
But in seven years, in a lifetime, she's never been this broken.
And the girl who walks off the Falcon walks right into her arms and fits in a way Leia won't let herself dwell on, not tonight.
When she buries her face against the crook of Rey's neck, she smells like sweat and blood, like oil and grease, and Wookie and she can only hold her tighter, breathe her deeper.
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Later, it's like touching a ghost of her former self. Dark hair spread out on a pillow, bones far too easy to trace beneath skin. "Please" stuttered out when teeth play over budding curves.
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Later, it's like looking in a mirror. Dark eyes desperate, pleading. Fingers tangling in her hair. "Don't leave me alone" mouthed over and over against her pulse.
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Rey's mouth finds the long healed-scar just to the left of her clavicle at the same time her hips hitch sharply between the cradle of her thighs and Leia almost smiles.
Of course the girl learns her body as quickly as she did Han's ship.
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Somewhere near morning, Rey's finger reverently traces another long-healed scar along her lower abdomen, the one that has been burning as fresh for seven years as it had that day Ben was born, screaming and thrashing in a doctor's hands.
Leia remembers every time Han's mouth had worshiped that scar, calloused hands spanning her hips and holding her still.
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When she watches the girl disappear into the Falcon, she doesn't feel any less broken.