Sometimes Rey still dreams of that moment on Starkiller Base when Kylo Ren buried his light saber deep into his father's chest.
Sometimes it's his mother's heart he burns through and Rey can only watch her fall.
On those nights feeling the woman breathing next to her is not enough, nor is reaching out with her mind to brush the invisible tendril that links her Force with Leia's.
It takes more to quell the cold panic that seizes her chest, to reassure herself that Leia is alive beside her.
Her hand frames Leia's face in the dark.
Fingers trace over a familiar arch of cheek, the fan of lines beside soft lashes, even the curve of her ear before a thumb worrying Leia's lower lip elicits a sleep-slurred rumble of "Rey-"
She shifts, long limbs put to service, until Leia's body—so inconceivably soft and so terrifyingly small—is safely caged beneath her own.
She'd memorized the contours of Leia's body in a night, had committed to memory the curve of waist to hip, the weight of a breast against her palm.
Her head dips until her mouth meets Leia's throat. She bites and laps until she finds the faint beat against her lips.
Tomorrow, Rey knows, Leia will be angry as she fusses with her makeup, trying to cover the stain Rey has left in her wake—but tonight she moans and Rey can taste it against her tongue.
Rey sucks two fingers into her mouth; she pulls them out to a wet sound that would have made her blush on any other night.
She hears her curse against the sting but buries her fingers as deep inside Leia as she can reach.
Leia's well-manicured nails raise welts across her back when she finally comes.
Rey used to mark her days by carving endless notches into a bulkhead.
Now she counts the stinging trails along her shoulders, her back, anywhere Leia can reach.