Back in Coronet City, Luke Skywalker would have been called a mark. The kind of kid who walked around in a daydream, so you could just lift his wallet out of his back pocket. Or you could play the long game. One of you would hang out at the holo-arcades and ask him for a spare credit to play pinball (he'd give it to you). You'd tell him some sad story, ask him about his life, what his parents did. He'd invite you over to look at his holo miniatures, and you'd take a good look at the windows. Then you'd send the whole gang over a few nights later to clean the place out – jewelry, tableware, screens, everything. And if you saw him again later around the arcades or on the riverfront, so what? He wouldn't do anything about it.

That was a lifetime ago though, and Han was no longer that dirty, sticky-fingered urchin. He had his own shower now, for one thing, on his own ship, and while smuggling spice for gangsters was nothing to be proud of, at least he didn't rob people anymore. Plus, he'd long since figured out that there were different ways to be tough. Half his old gang would probably have dropped dead after four days in Luke's native desert. They only knew how to take – they didn't know how to make something out of nothing. So even though there weren't enough streets in dusty Tattooine for Luke to have learned any street smarts, Han had to give the kid credit for making it this far on nothing but guts. He could respect that. And from mutual respect came friendship, so they were friends now.

Han thought all of this while watching Luke lose miserably at Sabacc. A lot of old thoughts resurfaced when he watched someone get played, even if they were friends. Luke's problem was partly that he couldn't bluff, and partly that he never, ever thought that other people might be bluffing. But mostly, Han noticed, it was that he seemed to do everything in his power to give Leia Organa the upper hand. If she smiled, he folded. If she called a bet, he called it too, no matter what he was holding. If she challenged him, he revealed everything. Too late! Too late! the rest of the table howled when he tried to amend his wager after she'd broken eye contact. It took no time at all for the other players (a mismatched assortment of total novices and slightly more seasoned pilots) to catch on, and soon they were all silently banking on it. They fleeced him. Luke took the losses cheerfully – he just shook his blond head and laughed. It was a good thing they were only playing for bottlecaps.

"You're doing it on purpose," Han accused the Princess, when the game was over and they were filing out of the mess hall.

She stopped in the doorway. "Doing what?"

"Taking advantage of him," Han said.

Leia looked surprised. "What do you mean? Who?" She stared up at him with her big, dark eyes. Innocent, a touch suspicious. Han was distracted for a moment trying to decide whether this was an act (he'd seen her bluff, she was pretty good) until the look turned openly hostile. That was how she usually looked at him – wide-eyed exasperation, like he'd crashed out of the sky on a burning mission to annoy her.

Han wasn't trying to start a fight, he just wanted her to know that he was onto her.

"Luke. You bat your eyelashes and he loses it. You know it, I know it, everyone knows it except him."

"I don't bat my…" Leia exclaimed, before thinking better of it. She glanced out the door to see if anyone had heard, then lowered her voice. "I don't know what you're talking about. As usual."

There was a brief stand-off between them, but he could stare at a pretty face all night. She broke first, rolling her eyes with a sigh.

"Good night, Captain."

Sometimes he didn't know why he'd bothered. Then he watched her march away to the barracks, her swishy hips arguing with her military shoulders, and he remembered.

She's so beautiful, Luke had sighed one week after their escape from the Death Star, as they watched Leia ascend the make-shift podium. The Princess thanked the previous speaker and launched into the bad news: all the urgent work the Rebels faced. Dismantle the base, stay on the move, set up new intelligence channels. That was when Han had realized Luke's crush was serious – it wasn't just that she was the first freshwater girl the kid had ever set eyes on (dewy lashes and plump skin would crack any parched desert heart) and it wasn't just the excitement of the rescue, or the sweet smile she'd bestowed on them at the previous night's medal ceremony. Now the Princess was barking orders in an ill-fitting uniform, and Luke was still enraptured. She stood like her spine was forged all in one piece – all that was missing was a crown welded to the top. Han wondered if she'd been wearing one when the Imperials had caught her, and how they'd managed to pry it off.

"Sure," he shrugged. "But good luck loosening her up."

Luke was full of surprises. Within a month, he was regularly eating meals with her: in the mess hall, heads bent towards each other. And although the Princess graciously invited other recruits to sit with them, few ever took her up on her offer – everyone could see the air between them.

Save it for the wedding became a common refrain around base. Luke had done something uncommonly brave or uncommonly clueless? That's going in my speech. The scouts had stumbled upon a case of sparkling Alsakan wine when raiding an abandoned Imperial outpost? Should we drink it now or save it for the wedding? Someone had spoken out of turn or made a fool of themselves in front of the Princess? Well, there goes your invitation. Everyone agreed that it would happen, whether they actually cared about the supposed lovers or because it was convenient short-hand for the great big party we'll have after we win this horrible war.

So far, nobody had slipped up and mentioned it in front of her Highness. A few people had told Luke that there were bets riding on them, and he'd moaned something like I don't… What if she… Please stop.

Today Luke and Leia sat at one of the middle tables, huddled over their rations of protein soup. The mess was crowded, hungry Rebels steadily streaming in. Han kept the pair the corner of his vision as he hastily filled a cup with caf and maneuvered out of the serving line. Then he seized the empty seat beside Luke.

"Good morning, your Worship."

The interruption earned him a prim arch of brow. "It's noon," Leia informed him. "Are there no clocks on your ship?"

Luke laughed. "None that work," he quipped.

"Hey, I went out on your land patrol last night," Han pointed out. "Your commander Thullis got us turned around and we didn't get back until 0300. Nothing but those blasted trees for hours in any direction."

"You volunteered?" Luke prompted. Across the table, the Princess mirrored Luke's curious gaze.

"Just felt like taking a walk," Han shrugged. "Didn't expect it to take five hours."

They raised eyebrows at each other but didn't press him further. The conversation turned to the physical drills awaiting them after lunch.

"You could join those too, you know," Luke said.

Han shook his head. In truth, the patrol hadn't been all that unpleasant. He couldn't remember the last time he'd roamed through planetary scenery like that, and in a way, it had been peaceful. Few things were more shiveringly unappealing to him, however, than group exercise drills. Memories of his Imperial training days still lurked in the corners of his mind, waiting to jump out – the smell of sweat, the sergeant's cane, the feeling of captivity. He had kept a few good habits from that time, and that was enough. "No thanks," he sneered. "You kids have fun."

"It's important. And you could benefit," the Princess scolded. "We have to be prepared for anything, and that means maintaining physical fitness in order to – "

Han cut her off with a luxurious stretch. "Princess, if you're concerned about my physical fitness…" he began, "You can give me an exam any time." He caught her eye and smiled innocently when she faltered.

Luke groaned. The Princess opened her mouth to reply, but nothing came, and for a moment, Han thought he'd won. A fine furrow formed between her brows as she considered him.

Then she rose to her feet. "I'll arrange it with the Med Center," she said coolly. She collected her spoon and bowl and left. Luke, obeying his inner compass, followed after her, sparing Han a final, disapproving head shake on his way out.

As he watched them go, Han found himself wondering what she wore to said training exercises, and if he'd spoken too soon.

That little scowl lingered, though. Han was still thinking about it when he went to bed that night. It was cold and damp on this remote base, and he and Chewie had left the Falcon's hatch open all day as they'd hauled crates of plasma cartridges up and down the ramp, trying to puzzle together how much could safely be crammed into their smuggling compartments. They weren't even transporting them anywhere yet – they were waiting for the signal, the Quartermaster had informed them, and he ordered them to be ready at the drop of a hat. It seemed that the Generals now considered the Falcon to be part of their rag-tag fleet. Han wasn't sure how he felt about this. Chewie had stopped asking about their plans regarding a certain bilious Hutt, and lately it seemed as if they were both waiting for the other to bring it up. They moved around each other in a mute Hosnian waltz. Now Chewie was prowling the sparse nature outside the hangar in hopes of finding fresh meat, and Han was lying alone in his bunk, worn out and chilled to the bone. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw the Princess staring back at him, disapproval in her dark gaze. It frustrated him. He had half a mind to put his pants back on and scour the base for her, just to tell her to learn to take a joke.

Han knew by now come-ons didn't work on her. Maybe that was why he couldn't resist. It was the compulsive logic of the slot machines – pushing the button over and over despite the abysmal odds, each loss a punishment that made the win seem even more impossible, and therefore all the more enticing. It was the gambler's prayer: Why not me?

At least flirting with a stone wall was free. He closed his eyes and saw her walk away again. He saw her dark head bent towards Luke, the easy smiles they shared, the frowns and vague suspicion she reserved for him instead.

A Princess and a guy like me? It had been idle talk, when he'd first floated the idea, but the Kid hadn't even hesitated. No. Of course not.

It made sense. The Princess and the hero of Yavin. The hero always got the girl, even Han knew that. And the kid told everybody he was training to be a Jedi knight – knights and princesses were meant for each other. But it bothered him. Sure, they looked good together. The wedding would be beautiful. And then what? She was already used to taking all of Luke's cards. She'd walk all over him. It wasn't fair to the kid, and it wouldn't do her any good, either.

Han wouldn't let her walk all over him. Except maybe in bed. (Would she?) Yes, he'd thought about it. No thank you, Captain, she'd said calmly when he'd disregarded Luke's warning and tried his luck early on, their first night on the new base. (The kid didn't know anything about this particular, insurrectionist-of-the-people Princess, he'd assured himself.) They'd all been drinking and suddenly she'd looked very real. Not the murderous menace he'd met under blaster fire a week before, not the shiny symbol who'd draped a big medal around his neck, but a beguiling mix of fiery talk and quick wits coming from a soft, red mouth under soft, dark eyes, and he'd wanted to know how soft, how deep.

Wanna come back to the Falcon for a nightcap?

For a second, the question hung suspended between them, and in that instant, Han had looked her in the eye and convinced himself that anything was possible. Then in a blink, she'd turned him down. But it wasn't her polite dismissal that rang in his ears when he thought about that night, it was Luke's voice, suddenly tinged with a warning.

No.

Han stared up at the scratched metal frame of his bunk. Get a grip, he warned himself. Sure, rejection stung, but it was nothing to lose sleep over. And anyway, he knew one realm in which she'd never be too good for him, and that was in the palace of his imagination. There, he was free to put her through her paces. He reached down and closed his eyes.

This turned out to be a bad idea. He'd thought that the experiment would help, that by bringing the Princess down to his level, even if only in secret, he might feel less unsettled around her – that it might dispel, for example, the spike of irritation he felt when Luke embraced her in a matter-of-fact hug before climbing into his X-wing that morning, and when she rested her cheek on his shoulder for a moment before letting him go. Han hadn't seen that from them before. He wondered if he'd underestimated the kid, and whether they were already sleeping together. The thought made him itch.

The scouts were heading out on an expedition to a rumored opening in the Empire's Javin sector blockade, and most of the base had gathered in the hangar to send them off.

Han realized the extent of his mistake when, to his surprise, the Princess came to stand beside him for the blast-off. He glanced down at her. Last night's false images hadn't faded in the daylight, and now they only added to his discomfort. She didn't look wanton and desperate – she looked tired and worried, and Han felt a stirring of remorse that was entirely alien to him.

"He'll be fine," he found himself telling her. "The Kid's a great pilot." It came naturally because he meant it. She glanced up at him and their eyes met, though she only nodded and drew her lower lip further between her teeth.

Then all the engines roared at once and drowned out everything around them. When Luke's ship soared out of the hangar, Han put a hand on her shoulder and squeezed.

She surprised him again that evening by walking right onto the Falcon. The ramp was down and the hatch was unlocked because he and Chewie hadn't turned in yet. They were sitting at the circular table in the main hold, running current through a circuit board that would one day become part of the control panel and not really talking to each other, when suddenly light footsteps fluttered up the corridor – and when Han glanced over, there she was.

"Hello," the Princess said politely, as if she often made house calls. "Have you two had dinner yet?"

Chewie growled that they had not, while Han gaped. He spoke without thinking. "What, the Kid's not available so we'll have to do?"

"Something like that," she answered easily. "Care to join me in the mess hall?"

"We can make dinner here," Han said, springing to his feet. The Princess started to protest, but Chewie backed him up, clearing space on the table and steering her towards the curved couch. Han rifled through the storage bin above the cooker, searching for a peace offering. "We can make… uh… soup." He chanced a glance back at her, and added, preemptively: "It's a whole lot better than what you've been eating in the mess. This is the real, freeze-dried stuff, not powdered rations."

Somehow, the Princess agreed to it all. She sat at their table and looked at their smoking circuit board with interest. She accepted a hot bowl of soup, with the good noodles from the red packet. She listened attentively to Chewie's favorite story about the Clone Wars and the revenge of the trees on Kashyyyk, which Han faithfully recited in Basic. For once, he was glad Chewie was so hell-bent on telling everyone this story, because he wasn't sure what to say to her otherwise. When the noodles were gone, he got up to find the remaining cans of Twi'lek jellied wine. "It's like dessert," he explained, setting a choice of three flavors before her, and the Princess suddenly smiled wide. "I never thought I'd be happy to see these again," she said. "A staple of spaceport layovers when I travelled for the Senate."

The memory of her past life didn't seem to bother her. She popped open her can with evident relish, and Han watched as she dispensed with the spoon and put her lips to the rim to slurp the jelly up like a seasoned dock worker.

He was suddenly acutely aware of the proximity of his bunk. Ten steps down the hall from where they sat, and the calculating part of his brain was working on the odds already. Stop it, he told himself. The odds were insane. There were no maneuvers.

Instead, Han ventured: "So…any news from Luke and the squadron?"

"No," she replied, "but no news is good news. They're not supposed to use their comms unless there's a problem." He watched her eyes drift to the entrance hatch.

"He'll be fine," Han told her again. "Kid's a great pilot."

It was late afternoon the next day, and Han and Chewie stood shoulder to shoulder amongst the Rebels. They were gathered out in the barren field south of the base, a safe distance from the pre-fab buildings. The engineers had finally assembled the state-of-the-art ion cannons delivered by one of the Alliance's wealthy donors. A gas magnate from Anaxes, some of the grunts murmured. Or was he an aurodium tycoon from Belnar? Only the Princess and Mon Mothma knew for sure, but the cannons were here, ready to fire, and it was only fair that the entire base should assemble to watch the first test.

Special Forces did the honors. Six clay discs soared through the air, just as they did for blaster practice, when six staccato bursts of laser fire would shatter them one by one – but now General Madine activated the cannon, and the discs simply vanished in a wave of white-hot light.

A cheer rang through the crowd, and Chewie roared along merrily.

The mood on the walk back to the base was congenially chaotic. High Command and the suck-ups marched ahead, while the rest of the Rebel army lagged behind. Han and Chewie ambled at their own pace. Nobody seemed in a hurry to return to work. They were too excited, high on the thought of Imperial fleets extinguished at the push a vengeful button. Shift's almost over anyway, a few voices whispered to each other. And it was a balmy evening. Was it against regulations to bring the mess hall's trays outside and eat their rations in the setting starlight?

The excitement reminded Han of the evenings before a hit, when he and his fellow riff-raff had scoped out the house and picked a window, or spent all afternoon watching the shop owner put credits in the register, and all that was left to do was wait for nightfall and talk about all the food they would buy at dawn. Juicy dumplings from the market and meat skewers and steamfruit pudding, and a case of ale for their hideaway, and if I have anything left, shoes! They piled their mental plates high while sharpening their knives for the shopkeeper's throat.

The Princess would hate the comparison. Still, Han thought about those kids a lot these days, because so many things were the same again. He and the other urchins had made all the same promises to each other. We're in this together, they'd whisper to each other in the alleys. They didn't have uniforms, but they had colors, and pledges, and inside jokes. All the boasts were the same too. Let them catch me, the skinniest of the litter would say, I'll die before I tell them anything!

Well, Han had gotten caught, and he had paid dearly. The others had run and left him holding the bag, and fate had kicked him onto a whole new course.

He watched the Rebel recruits slap each other on the back and laugh and wondered how many of his old friends were dead now. The main difference was that these young hot-heads hadn't fallen in together by chance. They'd each heard about this most insane of causes and jumped in, already converted. Something about this revolution made them keep raising the stakes in a way Han had never seen before, tossing their lives to chance over and over again. And now the Universe had rewarded the survivors with unprecedented firepower.

Two young recruits fell in step with him. Han recognized them from the pilots' Sabacc games, though they hardly qualified as pilots and he didn't know their names. They'd yet to hit a target, which is why they hadn't been sent off on the recon mission. Mostly they repaired ships and repeated gossip.

The taller one greeted him. "Hey, Solo. Surprised they didn't send you out with the scouts."

Han shrugged. "Falcon's too big for that kind of gig."

"Speaking of your ship…" the recruit drawled. "Was that the Princess you had onboard last night?"

The Princess was halfway across the field already, a tiny figure in gleaming white among the Generals' gray uniforms. Han hadn't seen her during the demonstration, and now he wondered if she'd been pleased about it.

"Yeah, so?"

The would-be pilots exchanged glances. "Well…" It was the second one's turn to pipe up. "Aren't you and Skywalker friends? You know how he feels about her."

Han bristled.

"Do I?" he snapped. "Chewie, tell Luke's new pals what we think of meddlers."

Chewie bared his teeth and sent them scurrying.