Heading back to the sleep tent, it was no longer the graphic sexual images and sensations that bothered Leia but her out of hand reaction to them. Up until now, she'd been caught up in herself — shocked by what had happened, alarmed by it, stirred up and flustered by it; all of her attention absorbed by how it had affected her. For the first time, her thoughts turned to how it all must have seemed to Han, who wasn't privy to whatever it was that had gone on inside her mind. How strange and incongruous, how bewildering and unwarranted her sudden and complete reversal in behavior must have felt to him.

She'd been monstrously unfair to Han, Leia realized now.

Everything Luke said to her had rung upsettingly true, but it was the idea of her rash self-protective actions truly hurting Han that managed to seep past her defenses. She cringed to recall the callous way she'd lashed out at him when he'd done nothing to deserve it.

Shame and remorse were powerful motivators, and they altered her footsteps now, shifting her course from the tent over to the campfire she'd tried so hard to avoid earlier. Han was facing her as she approached his spot at the fire, but his eyes were closed as he drank from his bottle and he didn't initially see her. She had to say his name to get his attention.

Hearing Leia's voice — and speaking to him — Han's eyes shot open, meeting hers in surprise. Whenever they fought there was always a relatively quick reconciliation. Their real shouting matches had gradually subsided many months ago. The occasional residual fighting between them lacked any real teeth, more friendly bickering akin to sarcastic banter than actual animosity. But after her thorough dismissal of him back in the tent, he hadn't expected any resolution to come tonight, nor had he anticipated her to be the first to break.

If that was what she was doing. Could be she wanted to fight some more, further expound on her 'disdain' for him — this time in a more public arena. With that in mind, he greeted her with a cautious, "Your Worship."

The way Han addressed her was carefully impassive, but loaded in a way someone who knew him well might notice. Leia counted herself among that limited number and still Han could be hard to read, yet she discerned a masked but palpable tinge of wounded pride that verified Luke's statement. The confirmation made her feel all the worse.

Leia had her pride, too, but there was no doubt she was in the wrong here and her ever instinct was that of atonement. She wanted to tell him how sorry she was, that she was equally responsible for what had almost happened between them. Perhaps even more responsible. Her feelings, her wishes, her body, her hormones were running rampant tonight, wild and incontrollable. She'd sent him signals; she knew she had. It was only reasonable for Han to assume she was open to him making a move.

And when he had, the only reason she reacted as strongly as she did was because of the unnervingly vivid images — vision? hallucination? intense fantasy? — she'd entertained of them naked together on the Falcon. But that wasn't Han's fault, it was hers.

It was wanting him so much that had sent her running, so certainly using the word 'disdain' had been hypocritical and completely out of line, a scant centim above cruel. She deeply regretted it. Even more, she regretted the look on his face after she'd said it.

Leia wanted to tell him at least that much, that she'd been wrong to use such a false and vicious word against him, but there were too many people around right now — the Rogues especially, who lived off that kind of gossip fodder.

As if to underscore the point, Hobbie came walking back to the fire to reclaim his log and Wes straightaway began to tease him. "Hey, Hobs, the stories are still going on, buddy…." he warned in a mock helpful tone.

Wedge snickered before putting in, "Yeah, sure you can handle it?"

"You're not gonna run off crying again, are you?" Wes taunted.

"Kriff off, Janson." Hobbie flipped him his middle finger. "You know I just had to take a piss."

"Or you were so scared you shat your pants," Wes guffawed, "and had to hide the evidence in the woods."

Three years in, Leia was unfazed by — and, at the moment, uninterested in — their antics, but she saw a deeper opportunity here. "Leave him be," she spoke up, and all eyes turned to her. "It's Nalday, after all. During the Festival of Spirits." She looked squarely at Han, making sure to catch his gaze. "The fear gets to everyone."

A tacit, private disclosure was taking place between the princess and the captain, too compelling not to absorb their full attention, and they both summarily ignored the Rogue's continued joshing. Not even Hobbie's vehement protests of, "I didn't shit my pants! I DIDN'T!", could intrude upon their moment.

Han recognized the ceasefire for what it was: not just an apology, but a significant admission that he'd been right; she was afraid, and that was why she ran away. Not because she hadn't wanted him. Not because she felt 'disdain' for him. Because she felt the opposite.

He would have touched her if he was closer, reached out for her hand, but the only way to do so at their current distance — just beyond arm's length — would be an awkward and obvious lunge. He settled for holding her eyes instead. "There's nothin' to be afraid of, Sweetheart."

His tone now was soft and gentle, achingly tender, the kind of tone she could so easily melt into and be swept away by all over again. "So they tell me…." she breathed on a sigh.

Her feet were taking their own liberties, carrying her the few steps over to him before her brain caught up. But the very fact that she was so quick to ignore everyone else around the fire — truthfully, on the entire planet — gave her pause and she stopped short of joining him, hovering awkwardly at the edge of his log. "Still, I…It's better if I say goodnight," she decided.

"What if we just sat here by the fire?" Han swiftly suggested, not at all ready to put a cap on what he saw as unmistakable progress between them.

When Leia didn't immediately refuse but wordlessly vacillated, he was further encouraged.

"'S nice and warm," he referenced in solution to her earlier objection that she'd been cold, on the off-chance there'd been any truth to it. "And we could roast sweetmallows…look up at the stars…" He lowered his voice for her ears only. "…try to convince Janson the mist rising off the lake over there is the ghost of that falumpaset he blasted today."

The beasts of burden were revered by the Naldayians. It was considered a bad omen to harm one, like a black tooka crossing your path or walking under a ladder. His killshot had been accidental, the result of a badly aimed blaster while fleeing the village, but the potentially negative portent obviously troubled Janson, who could kill men without batting an eye but hadn't stopped talking about the poor falumpaset all day.

"That does sound like more fun than sleeping," Leia admitted around a blossoming smile, which he readily returned. "Han, I—" She'd meant to let it go, but now that they were close and the risk of being overheard was diminished she couldn't contain the urge to apologize. "I'm sorry. You didn't deserve the way I acted. You did nothing wrong. It was all me. I…"

She shook her head, finding no explanation sufficient other than the truth — which was something she'd only begun to face herself and was nowhere near ready to discuss.

Han perceived her ongoing struggle, saw the tension and guilt in her eyes, and suspected it was more than just the hurtful words she'd said but the very act of almost kissing him that left her so ashamed. He wished to all the gods she'd let that go; let herself acknowledge she was a woman with her own needs and emotions, not just a cog of the Rebellion; that it was not only okay but right and good to feel things. "You didn't do anything wrong either, Leia."

She wished that were true but knew it wasn't. Now when she'd evidently descended so low as to have explicit sexual fantasies of him, not just in the midst of a life-or-death Alliance mission but while he was sitting right there in front of her — and then harshly lash out at him because of it. "You don't know what I did," Leia replied quietly, no longer meeting his eye.

That statement intrigued him, though he seriously doubted she'd done anything ever to garner the self-reproach dripping from her tone. "'S that so? Knew it was a real good dream I was havin' last night, but…maybe it wasn't a dream? Did you really climb into my bedroll with me?" That made her grin and give a soundless laugh, which had been his goal. "Nah." Han shook his head, smiling along with her. "If it was real, I would've woken up for that, no doubt about it."

He was letting her off the hook, and Leia would take it. But as she more fully processed what he'd just said, the broader implication occurred to her: maybe she wasn't the only one having these vivid fantasies. Maybe she wasn't even alone in tonight's. Back in the tent, had Han been imagining them together that way, too? Her smile faded into a heated intensity as she held his eye. "Do you dream about me?"

Before Han could answer, Leia's continued loitering at the edge of their fire circle without taking a seat caught Wedge's curiosity and, without meaning to, he put her on the spot by asking, "You turning in, Princess?"

Leia looked from Han to Wedge, and answered with a shake of her head. "No." Finding Han's gaze again, she did her best to impart an implicit and unmistakable meaning: a person could only run so far; right now, she was standing still. "I think I'll stick around…" Her eyes glimmered as she recited his words back to him. "…See what happens."

Han gave her his trademark half-smirk, delight radiating through his features. "Well, c'mere then." He patted the log beside him, albeit at a more discreet distance from where his own thigh rested, from how they were pressed together in the tent. "I've got a mallow with your name on it." Grabbing up the roasting stick, he fished a sweetmallow from the bag and held it up to her. "See, says 'Her Highnessness' right there."

She rolled her eyes on a peal of soft laughter. "Shut up and hand me the stick," she said, wresting it away from Han as she plunked down next to him.

"Mmm, I like it when you get rough," he growled, deep and low.

"Yeah? Then you'll love this."

She nudged her shoulder into his with playful aggression, but he remained upright on the log. In fact, he gave a little grunt of feigned enjoyment. "Ooooh, more, more. Hurt me, baby."

Leia gently elbowed him, laughing harder now. "You're an idiot. Stop, or I'll hurt you for real — and you know I can."

"Oh really?" Han's eyebrows shot up in roguish challenge. "Who beat who last blaster certification?"

"The final target shouldn't have counted," she argued while her smile grew brighter still. "It was too high. You were closer to it. That was cheating."

"Cheating?" he chuckled as he speared the mallow onto the end of the stick for her. "Sweetheart, that was growing. Not my fault you didn't do any."

Their conversation carried over to Luke as he drew near to the fire, and he smiled at their teasing banter. Fear hadn't won tonight.