Han Solo had been dreading this moment for a year and a half. Crumbling rock walls lined both sides of the passage in which they stood, debris rained down from the ceiling, the dust swelled and choked him, the earth shook beneath his feet… and all he could think was I knew it would come to this.
Not death. Falling.
She was so close to him. He could see individual eyelashes, could see a strand of her hair that had fallen out of the nest of braids wrapped around her head. Eyes like fire, lips like a brand. He wanted her; had wanted her for months now, since the moment he'd spied her outstanding courage, her unfathomable wit and strength. Wanting her was nothing new.
Beautiful, tortured, ruthless Leia Organa. How could he not want her? She was larger than life, a giantess of myth, a pillar of fucking royalty.
And if she'd been just that, he might have been safe. But he'd met her in the depths of an Imperial detention block. And she'd shouted orders at him and taken charge of her own rescue and had made him sputter and rage and want in a way he never had.
And as the walls crumbled, as the dust rose, as he watched her eyes blink and find his in all their beautiful ferocity, he knew that it was over.
He loved her. And there wasn't a damn thing he could do about it.
"We have to get out of here!" she shouted.
He nodded, grabbed her hand, pulled her with him in the direction of the Falcon. They'd get out, they'd fly away, they'd escape as they always did. She might not even realize that a fundamental shift had occurred. Oblivious, she'd return to business as usual, writing his name on the duty roster without a second thought.
But it was over. He'd fallen, crumbling like the walls around them. And he suddenly realized that he'd never, ever, felt so alone.
