The ship's entered light speed and he's staring (but not seeing) the lines of stars as they're flying past. No, instead he's lost in thought, wondering when this happened, how he let it happen. One moment he's a smuggler looking to make some extra cash on the side and the next he's fallen in love with a princess without a planet.
Han groans, dropping his head in his hands. Love. That damned four letter word he's been running from since he can remember. No, Han Solo does no love. He lusts (oh, and does he ever) but love? Hell, he doesn't know the meaning of the word, ask anyone.
Yet somehow he's here, head in his hands, wondering how he's going to get out of this, if he even can. (He's lying. He's really asking himself if he even wants to get out of this mess.)
Messes and scrapes, tight spots and situations, trying to get out of one thing or another and landing himself (and, ultimately, Chewie) into a new problem in the process, that's the way it goes for him.
Besides, what would a princess want with a scoundrel like him? As much as he's joked about it in the past, he's now looking at it, wondering. Cause that's what he is: a scoundrel, a smuggler, a man with a past and no future. (None that a princess should be a part of anyways.)
The thing is, he's okay with that. At least, he used to be. Now, the small ring pressed against his thigh, hiding in his pocket is making him stop and think. Think about why the hell it's there, how he thinks he's going to pull this off, what he's really looking for, what he really wants. And that's a new feeling, because Han Solo always knows what he wants. Or he did, until a fair haired Princess interrupted his routine.