“Are you alright?” Luke’s voice is soft as he speaks to an unseen figure, his words barely audible over the stiff wind rushing past the newly-deceased Hutt’s guard barge. Han turns toward the aft of the small deck, straining his ears and his white-blurred vision, trying desperately to see something—anything but the haze and the indistinct fuzz of shifting shadows.
“I’m fine,” Leia replies
quietly. Her voice is low, her words careful. Han can tell she is not fine. She
is angry, and wounded, and Han can hear something dark and silky dangerous
beneath her words—something that, only after nearly two months together on the
Falcon, he had learned to hear coiled in her screams and lurking deep beneath
her whispers in the dead of night.