Chapter Text
The alarm went off at six.
Din didn’t need it, he was already awake. He always was. Years of early starts and late shifts had turned sleep into a luxury he didn’t trust. He reached out from under the thin blanket, hit the button on the old alarm clock, and let the silence settle again.
The apartment was small, two rooms and a half-kitchen, but it was home. The air smelled faintly of oil and detergent, and a fan hummed weakly in the corner.
In the next room, something rustled.
Din groaned as he got up, shuffling his way to Grogu’s small room and peering in the crack in the door.
“Grogu,” Din said quietly, voice still rough from sleep. “Time to get up.”
A muffled groan answered him, followed by a thump of the unmistakable sound of a small body rolling off a bed onto the floor.
Din sighed, he opened the door and walked over to the bed, swinging his legs over the side of the bed. “You okay?”
A tiny voice piped up. “No.”
He stood, crossing to where Grogu was sprawled on the carpet in a tangle of blanket and pajamas covered in cartoon droids. His curls were stuck up in every direction, a soft halo of chaos.
Din crouched and offered a hand. “Come on, buddy. You’ve got school.”
“Don’t wanna.”
“You say that every morning.”
Grogu blinked blearily up at him, then muttered, "Don't wanna.”
Din’s lips twitched, the closest he came to a smile before caffeine. He lifted Grogu easily, set him on his feet, and handed him his small frog teddy. “Brush your teeth. I’ll make breakfast.”
“Pancakes?”
“No. Eggs.”
“Pancakes *and* eggs?”
“Eggs *or* pancakes.”
Grogu sighed like a tiny old man resigned to fate. “Fine.”
Din shook his head, opening the fridge, a humming, half-broken unit that Peli had found “discounted” from a junk sale. Inside was eggs, milk, cold leftovers, and one energy drink he’d been saving since last week. He cracked the eggs into a pan, stirring with practiced indifference.
“Hey,” he called, “are your shoes still by the door?”
Grogu reappeared, clothes on back to front and toothbrush foam still on his chin. “Maybe.”
Din handed him a towel and pointed to the shoes. “Wipe. Spit. Then eat.”
“Yes, Papá.”
The “Papá” was still new, quiet, accidental, but it hit like a gear shift every time. Din didn’t correct him. He just set a plate of scrambled eggs and toast on the table, poured himself black coffee, and let the quiet fill in the space between them.
Grogu kicked his legs under the table as he ate. “Can I come today?”
Din hesitated. He did this every day because he didn't want to go to school, yet every time Din picks him up, Grogu hurriedly explains his fun-filled day. He didn’t like bringing him to the garage on busy days, too many sharp tools, too much noise, Grogu would argue he has his headphones. But Tuesdays were slower, and Peli had a soft spot for the kid.
“Maybe for a little while before school,” Din said finally.
Grogu grinned, mouth full of toast. “You say that every time but then you say we have no time.”
“And you talk with your mouth full every time.”
Grogu grumbles.
Din almost smiled again.
When breakfast was done, he redressed Grogu, he packed Grogu’s lunch, double-checked his backpack, and grabbed his keys. Outside, the early sun was just beginning to rise over the desert horizon, casting long, gold light over the rust-colored dirt. The truck coughed to life after a few turns, another project waiting for free time he never had.
When he turns around to help his son in his car, he's met with the floppy eared hat his son refuses to part with. Din smiles faintly but doesn't say anything.
As they drove, Grogu sang softly along to the radio. Something old and twangy that Peli liked to blast at the shop. Din kept one hand on the wheel, the other drumming quietly against his thigh, eyes fixed on the road.
The town was just waking up, dust, diners, and neon signs flickering half-awake.
It wasn’t glamorous, but it was steady. And steady, Din thought, was something worth keeping.
He glanced at Grogu, cheeks round, eyes half-closed against the morning light, and thought, *yeah. Steady’s good.*
Din did promise Grogu he could wait out the morning at Peli’s, but it's a nightmare trying to drag the boy out of the garage. He'll unfortunately have to suck it up, he knows Grogu secretly likes school.
The shop smelled of oil, dust, and caf that had been reheated too many times. Peli Motto paced somewhere behind him, gesturing wildly as she haggled with a customer who clearly didn’t understand the difference between *vintage* and *junk*.
“Look, pal, if you want it to *drive*, you’ll pay the rate. If you want it to *explode*, take it to the lot across the street. I don’t do refunds for stupidity!”
Din has been banging away at the same truck for a week now, it's a stubborn thing. He looks behind him to the front of the shop and still hears the nonsense spilling from Peli. After a while it's comforting.
It was another Tuesday at *Motto’s Garage*, which meant that Peli was still shouting from the beginning of his shift at 7 am.
“Din! The customer with the sand-colored sedan says her AC’s out again- didn’t you just fix that thing last month?”
Din looked up from the hood of a beat-up pickup, one arm braced on the frame, a wrench dangling from his hand. “Yeah. And I told her to stop driving it through dust storms.”
Peli appeared from the office door, her hair tied up in a frizzy bun, grease on her cheek like war paint. “You tell her that again, she’ll leave a one-star review.”
“Then she can sweat.”
She jabbed a finger at him. “You’re lucky you work cheap.”
“I don’t,” Din said, tightening the last bolt. “You just underpay.”
That got him a laugh. “You’re not wrong.”
The shop was a maze of half-repaired cars, boxes of parts, and Jawas from across the road who somehow kept appearing from under the tool benches like tiny, caffeinated gremlins. Din had long since stopped asking how they got in. Peli probably had them on payroll.
He preferred it this way. The noise. The clatter. The distraction.
The shop was loud enough to drown out thought.
By four, the humid heat had turned the air thick. Din stripped off his outer jacket, revealing a plain black tee that clung to his shoulders, sweat and dust mixing on his skin. Grogu was sitting on an overturned milk crate near the fan, eating crackers shaped like animals and watching him with wide, patient eyes. Still wearing his floppy eared hair despite how hot it is. He picked him up from school and let him stay for the rest of his shift at work.
“Snack time again?” Din asked, not looking up from the carburetor.
Grogu nodded solemnly. “Snack time again.”
Peli leaned out of the office, wiping her hands. “He eats like a pit droid with a credit card.”
“Don’t we all,” Din muttered.
He didn’t talk much, not even to Peli, who had known him long enough to recognize that his silences weren’t unfriendly, they were just… comfortable. He wasn’t one for small talk. He fixed cars, paid bills, raised his kid, and went home. That was it.
And yet, lately, even that rhythm had started to feel thin. Too quiet. Too still.
“You gonna finish that thing before the next cycle, or should I start charging rent for the parts bin?” Peli called, wiping her hands on a rag that was already too dirty to help.
Din didn’t even look up. “If the client stopped bringing in scrap that’s been halfway melted by moisture leaks, maybe I would.”
Peli snorted. “Excuses. You sound like my ex-husband.”
“I thought he was dead.”
“Yeah, because he *made excuses*.”
The familiar rumble of a Harley’s engines shook the ground outside, Din didn’t even bother looking up. Only one person drove that relic and somehow made it sound intimidating.
The sound of heavy boots approached from behind, the slow, measured gait of someone who didn’t care to hurry but made everyone else move faster anyway.
“Boba,” Din said without turning.
“Djarin.”
Din straightened, wiping his hands on a towel as Boba Fett appeared from behind one of the parked speeders. Less scuffed than it used to be, but the same sharp-eyed stare.
Peli crossed her arms. “You better not be here to drag him into another side job. He's still my employee.”
Boba’s tone was perfectly flat. “You’ll be fine.”
Peli mutters colourful curses and walks off to leave them be.
Boba handed Din a crumpled piece of paper like it was a wanted poster.
“A guy I know asked me to give you this,” Boba said. “It's about another alternative.” He says quietly, looking straight into Din's eyes.
Din frowned, wiping his hands on a rag before taking it. The writing was barely legible, half scratched like a ransom note
> **Lu/ce Skywalker.**
> **29 - single - Taurus??**
> **Anchorhead Hospital**
> **Works 6 pm -6 am, Sun–Thurs ( sometimes works weekends tho. smth ab bein understaffed) also has a service dog (retired tho)**
>**number is something like..**
The rest of the note is terrible writing but Din will be able to figure it out.
“Why do I need to know they're a Taurus?”
“Ask Han, not me, he wrote it.” Boba huffs.
Din squinted at it. “Luce Skywalker?”
Boba shrugged. “That’s what it looks like.”
“Luce,” Din repeated slowly, testing the name. “Like Lucy?”
“Maybe,” Boba said, completely unconcerned. “Han said something about being related, I didn't care.”
“A service dog? I don't like dogs.” Din responds bluntly, huffing as he stands up.
Peli rolls her eyes, waving a mad hand around. “Oh, it's a service dog for makers sake!” She takes the sheet of paper and her expression contorts into something Din doesn't recognise. Then, she looks determined. “The dog will go with *her*. If not, I can always take it. Could do me good, Grogu likes dogs. People like dogs. Good for the shop.”
Din blankly stares.
“You know, you could save a ton of credits if you split that flat with someone,” she said, leaning against the speeder lift like she wasn’t about to start a fight. She was being oddly insistent.
Din didn’t even look up from the engine. “No.”
“C’mon, you’ve got nothing in that apartment. You don’t even *use* the kitchen.”
“I like it that way.”
Peli squinted at him. “You like living in silence with the kid and your emotional repression?”
Grogu crunched from his seat on the workbench, as if agreeing. Din sighed. “It’s peaceful.”
“What you mean is you’re impossible,” she said. “You could at least meet someone. I know a guy-”
“No.”
She threw up her hands. “Stars, fine. You’re as bad as the Jawas. Maybe worse. At least they talk to people before stealing their stuff, and we all know they do. The only way that business is open.” Peli walks away, but there's something there in her stride. Din doesn't care to dissect it.
Din didn’t bother responding. He didn’t need someone else in his space. Someone leaving dishes out, taking over his quiet hours, talking to him when all he wanted was sleep. He’d built his life to be simple. Work, Grogu, and a bit of silence at the end of the day.
A roommate sounded like chaos. Noise. Questions.
And the last thing Din Djarin ever wanted was *more noise.*
Din’s first instinct was to tell him no.
Flatly. Finally,
Din scanned the rest again. Hospital, night shifts, never home. His brow lifted slightly. “So this… Lucy works twelve-hour nights and is gone five days a week.”
“Seems that way.”
“Which means I’d barely see her.”
“Exactly.” Boba crossed his arms. “Perfect for you. You can pretend she doesn't exist.”
Din considered that. It did sound… ideal.
Peli’s voice rang out from wherever she disappeared to. “Fett. You also owe me three wupiupi from the last sabacc game!”
Boba ignored her entirely. “You’re still on daytime shifts?”
“Yeah,” Din said, rereading the note. The handwriting didn’t help. The details were a mess, but one part caught his attention: *‘never home.’*
No small talk, no awkward breakfast encounters, no explaining why he sometimes came home covered in engine grease with a sleepy six year old clinging to his shoulder.
This mysterious *Luce* would never even know they existed beyond a rent payment.
Perfect.
He folded the note and tucked it into his pocket. “Fine. I’ll call.”
Peli cackled from across the shop. “You? Calling someone? Stars above, I’d pay to hear that conversation.”
Din shot her a flat look. “I’ll message.”
“Of course you will,” she said.
Boba started walking away, his voice echoing back. “Do consider it Din, you need it.” He stares Din down without another word and turns.
The sound of a door slamming punctuated the air as Boba left, and Peli wandered over with her usual smirk. “So, your messaging..”
“Roommate,” Din said simply. “Name’s Luce Skywalker.”
Peli snorted, a shit eating grin on her face. “Skywalker? That's a name I haven't heard in awhile.. doubt that it's wormie, he was adamant about getting out of Tatooine,” She mumbles, eyes glancing up every now and then to Din. “Then again I heard he came back after a crash during his service. Poor thing, one bad thing after another.” Her eyes met the side of Din's head, who was very not interested.
Din’s only response was a low hum as he tightened a bolt, but something in his chest felt... unsettled.
Maybe it was the name. Perhaps it was the faint tug of curiosity he didn’t want to admit to.
He shook it off and kept working until the sun dipped low again, the heat fading into the quiet hum of the shop.
Luke Skywalker loves his job. He loves being right there helping people, being hands-on, knowing that he's saving lives. He has been there.
He loves the rush. The organized chaos of the ER, the way everything sharpens into focus when someone’s life is in his hands. He’s good under pressure, calm when everyone else isn’t. Luke has no choice but to think of his job, his body has no choice but to do his job.
But it’s not just about the adrenaline. It’s about the moments after, the quiet thanks, the way someone grips his hand when they realise they’re going to be okay. The way a scared kid’s breathing slows when he smiles. Those moments keep him coming back, shift after shift, even when his body aches and his scrubs smell faintly of antiseptic and bad caf.
The long nights blur together, alarms, overhead pages, and the constant hum of machines. Luke doesn’t mind. It’s where he feels useful. Needed. Alive. Still, being the one everyone leans on takes a toll. The late nights have turned into early mornings, and the world outside the hospital walls feels like it’s moving without him.
But ignoring all that, he is exhausted and really wants hot chocolate.
The fluorescent lights of the Anchorhead General Emergency Department hummed like tired machines, a constant reminder that the galaxy never really slept. Luke didn’t either, not when he was three hours into a twelve-hour night shift with two broken ribs (not his) and one broken caf maker (definitely his).
He adjusted the stethoscope around his neck, brushed a thumb across the faint scar at his wrist, and checked the vitals on the monitor. The patient was stable now, breathing easier. Luke’s eyes softened, the kind of calm that came from a thousand crises survived.
“Skywalker,” called Hera Syndulla, charge nurse and undisputed commander of the ER floor. “Trauma incoming. Car pileup on the east dock. Two minors, one critical.”
Luke nodded, already moving. Wind from the automatic doors caught his sandy hair, usually a mess, as he pushed through. The emergency bay was chaos, paramedics shouting vitals, the smell of antiseptic and ozone thick in the air.
That’s when he saw him.
Ezra Bridger, paramedic, trouble magnet, and somehow the only person who could make Luke’s pulse tick up faster than a flatlining monitor. His curls were slightly damp from rain, eyes sharp and too blue under the harsh lights, a faint grin tugging at his lips even as he wheeled in the gurney.
“Hey, Doc,” Ezra said, voice rough with adrenaline. “Got you a special delivery. The patient's stable for now. Took a nasty hit to the head.”
"You know I'm not a doctor," Luke grabbed the chart, his tone clipped but his mouth threatening a smile. “You always bring me the fun ones, Bridger.”
“Just trying to keep you from getting bored,” Ezra shot back, following Luke into the trauma bay.
Together, they moved around the patient like planets in orbit, efficient, practiced, wordless. Luke called for a CT scan, Ezra hooked up IV fluids, Hera shouted for a surgical consult. It was rhythm, chaos, and precision all at once.
The adrenaline drained from the room when they finally wheeled off the patient, leaving the hum of machines and the low thud of exhaustion behind, while Ezra leaned against the counter, watching Luke type notes into the terminal.
“You know, you really should smile more,” he said. “You look about five years younger when you do.”
Luke didn’t look up. “You’re assuming I have time to be young.”
Ezra chuckled. “Fair point. You could at least take a break. Grab a caf.”
“I did.” Luke finally looked over, blue eyes meeting blue. “The machine exploded.”
That earned a genuine laugh, loud, warm, and far too alive for the middle of the night. “You need better caf and luckier luck.”
Luke’s lips curved just slightly. “I need a lot of things, Bridger.”
Before Ezra could answer, Hera’s voice rang out from the hallway. “Bridger! Your partner’s waiting. Next call’s up.”
Ezra gave a lazy salute, pushing off the counter. “Guess that’s my cue. Try not to let the hospital fall apart while I’m gone, Skywalker.”
Luke watched him go, shaking his head but not denying the faint warmth in his chest. The doors hissed closed, and the sound of rain filled the silence again.
By the time Luke signed out, the night sky over Mos Eisley was beginning to pale, just a thin edge of dawn brushing against the towers. The ER had finally slowed to its usual morning lull, a mix of exhaustion and caffeine fumes.
Hera was finishing her rounds with her ever-present clipboard, still managing to look sharp despite a twelve-hour shift and zero breaks.
“Good work tonight,” she said as Luke dropped off his last chart. “You actually let someone else do stitches this time. Miracles happen.”
Luke gave her a faint smile, rubbing at the bridge of his nose. “I’m learning to delegate.”
“You’re learning not to pass out on your feet,” she countered, her hand grabbing his shoulder and pulling him close. “Now go home before I assign you a cot in supply storage.”
Luke scoffs but leans in nonetheless. He didn’t argue.
The hospital doors hissed open to the chill of early morning. The sky was an uneven grey, the kind that promised rain later. Luke zipped his yellow jacket, navy scrubs underneath, and started the quiet walk toward the hovertrain station.
The city was half-awake. Caf stands steaming on corners, dim lights flickering in storefronts, the smell of rain on durasteel. He tried not to think about the endless cases still waiting tomorrow, the patients who didn’t make it, the ones who did but shouldn’t have, the faces he couldn’t always forget.
He thought instead of Ezra. The laugh, the glint in his eyes when the crisis was over. The easy way he moved through chaos. It wasn’t anything serious, Luke told himself. Just... noticeable.
He caught the train and leaned his head against the cool glass. The tunnels of Mos Eisley blurred by, lights streaking like starfields. For a moment, it almost felt like flying again. Luke misses it.
Leia’s townhouse sat near the city’s quieter edge, all warm light and real wood trim that somehow resisted the sterile chill of the city beyond. Luke keyed the door open softly.
No one was awake when he came in after a shift, sometimes Leia but he was mostly alone. Except for Artoo, of course.
“Hey big guy,” Luke coos at the very slow arrival of his eighty five pound husky. He gets a low rumble in response and Luke threads his fingers through his white fur. “Did you have fun today?”
A singular ruff and an easy tail wag. He'll take it.
He softly takes his disgustingly worn Converse off, hangs his jacket up next to the door and puts his keys in the dish. Luke goes to the kitchen, opening the cupboard that holds his pathetic food. Artoo trails behind him, giving him a sniff before deciding Luke is very boring and wandering off.
With a huff, Luke grabs some blue noodles and mindlessly prepares it, muscle memory kicking in and Luke tries not to think about the implications of that.
Luke swings the fridge door open and looks at the last carton of milk. There's little left, proved by Luke shaking the carton as if he could magically conjure more milk. He heavily sighs as he shuts the fridge door. Staring at the collection of photographs, unintelligible lists by Han, and artistically unique drawings made by Ben.
"You need to get out," Leia states firmly, appearing right next to him, arms crossed as she stares at the side of Luke's head. The action doesn't go unseen by Luke, but it does get ignored.
Luke grabs his discarded, now wonderfully cold, bowl of blue noodles. "Love you too," Luke mumbles around his food. He hasn't changed out of his scrubs, or the Power Ranger t-shirt he has under, courtesy of Ben.
Leia sharply inhales and Luke mentally prepares himself for the showdown he's about to have with Leia. They've had this discussion multiple times over the past few months, and every time it makes Luke guilty. He's pretty sure that's what Leia's plan is. Subtle manipulation to use his own good nature against him. And it's working, they both know it.
“I'm serious, Luke.” The voice follows him as Luke walks away from the kitchen to settle on the worn leather couch that Han mysteriously got.
“And so am I!”
“Don't talk with food in your mouth, you’d think you were raised in a barn.” Leia groans, flopping down next to him and tucking her feet under his lap.
“Well, in some ways-”
“You were not literally raised in a barn.”
“Kinda!” Luke looks over to see his sister, his very tired sister who cannot be bothered with him. “I spent most of my time in a barn we had, the top level had this huge open wall which could look up into the sky, I had a telescope and even a couch there. I'd always be there for the stars.” His tone turns softer as he looks over to the window, his eyes finding the night decorated with the same stars nineteen year old him looked at.
There's silence, when he turns back to Leia, he expects a solemn expression, maybe softness but that isn't what greeted him.
“What?” Luke tilts his head at her, slurping loudly out of his bowl.
“You made that up, you got that from Smallville.” She scoffs, setting more firmly against him.
“No, I did not! It's not my fault Smallville is a fairly accurate representation of farm-”
Leia waves her hands in front of Luke to get him to shut up. Her nose is scrunched up, she's thinking. That can either be good or bad for him.
“You are avoiding the point of why I initiated this conversation.” She puts her hands down, grabbing the bowl out of his hands and putting it on the table. Now he can't hide behind the noodles, which is exactly what Leia wants. She wants him vulnerable, and he is already feeling very vulnerable after his twelve hour shift.
“Leia…” Luke whines, shoulders falling in exhaustion. He thought he could wrangle his way out. Unfortunately, his sister knows him way too well for it to be normal.
Leia gives him a frown in response, and it shuts him up. “You need to get your own place, Luke- and before you start your apartment searching argument, me and Han talked.”
“You and Han talking means nothing good for me.” Luke retorts, she shuts him up again with a look.
Leia doesn't look away, but her face does soften. “Don't be so dramatic, this is good! Han knows a guy that knows a guy- I know how that sounds, I made the same face to Han.”
Luke looked away from her, he didn't think he was making a face. "I already told you-"
“Listen." She cuts off his protests, she's had this rehearsed. "It's a little further from the hospital, but it's still close. The rent is cheap, it's a small place, it's even near Peli’s!” Luke knows she only mentioned her because Luke has a soft spot for Peli, which means there's something he won't like in this arrangement.
"I feel like there's a but coming." He mumbles, eyeing her suspiciously, it doesn't affect her.
She purses her lips, thinking about the best way to say this that'll end up with Luke not hogging the guest bedroom meant for guests.
"You'd have to live with a roommate," Leia says carefully.
He glares, half tempted to throw a noodle at her. “You’re bribing me with Peli and then telling me I have to live with a stranger?”
“I’m bribing you with privacy,” Leia counters, arching a brow. “You can’t keep crashing here between shifts forever, Luke. Ben needs his space. And so do you. You need space. Windows. A proper kitchen. Somewhere Artoo can actually stretch his legs without dodging oil stains.”
At his name, Artoo gave a soft, questioning whine from the corner. “He’s used to the place. Moving again might stress him out.”
Leia smiled faintly. “He’s a retired service dog, not a hermit. He’ll adjust.”
“What if it's a place that doesn't accept dogs!”
“He's still technically a service dog, they can't discriminate.” Leia challenges.
Luke sinks further into the couch, rubbing a hand over his face. “I like it here. It’s home.”
Leia softens a little. “It’s not that I don’t want you here. You know that. But you come home, eat whatever’s left in the fridge, and pass out on the couch for four hours before your next shift. That’s not living, Luke. That’s surviving.”
For a moment, neither of them says anything. The hum of the fridge fills the silence. Luke’s tired eyes wander to the family photos on the wall. Ben’s messy drawings, Han’s ridiculous grin, Leia mid-laugh. He smiles faintly.
Then, quietly. “I just don’t know how to do anything else. I moved to Yavin on a whim to go to the academy with Biggs, look how that turned out? I'm a disabled night nurse with a retired service dog for my seizures, PTSD, my motor control issues, my photophobia-”
“Don't play the pity card, it doesn't look good on you, and it never works on me.” She interrupts softly.
Leia’s expression softens completely as she takes his hands, grounding him before his spiraling thoughts can carry him away. Her thumbs trace slow, reassuring circles over his knuckles. A gesture that says I know you, I’ve seen you like this before.
“Hey,” she murmurs, steady but gentle. “Breathe, Luke. You’re not broken. You’ve been through more than anyone ever should have, and you’re still here. You get up, you go to work, you take care of people. Fighting for life, even when it hurts, is what you do every day. That’s not failure. That’s strength.”
She squeezes his hands once, firmly. “You’re on your medication. You’ve been careful. You haven’t had a seizure in months. You’ve learned to live with what happened to you, not in spite of it. That’s progress, Luke.. even if you can’t see it.”
Luke exhales, slumping back. “You sound like Obi-Wan.”
“Obi-wan was your replacement therapist,” Leia says dryly, reaching for his abandoned bowl of noodles. "Now I have to fill the role or else you're going to rot away in that ER.” He grumbles. “Cody said he and Obi-wan are gonna visit soon, so you can shout your problems at him then.”
She pauses, contemplating before leaning in close to Luke.
“Hera lets me in on what you're like at work, you know." He teases as he gets up from the couch. She receives a groan that she supplies with a kiss to the crown of Luke's hair.
"And I've heard about Ezra." She whispers to him before slinking away. Luke immediately flares up, no farm boy tan to protect him from the flames of blush on his cheeks.
"I told her that in confidence!" Luke shouts as he whips his head towards her.
She leaves him to think on the couch. Leia desperately wants something more stable for her brother, he deserves it. But Luke is his own enemy, he won't help himself.
Leia puts the bowl quietly on the counter and walks over to rub his shoulder.
Her eyes flicker toward him again, more serious now. “Just... promise me you’ll look at the place? For me?”
Luke hesitates, caught between exhaustion and the quiet love in his sister’s voice. Finally, he sighs. “Fine. I’ll look.”
Leia grins triumphantly. “Good. Because Han already gave them your information.”
Luke’s head snaps up. “What?”
Leia’s already halfway down the hall, calling over her shoulder, “See you at lunch, Mr. Independent!”
Luke groans into a couch cushion. “You are evil, Leia Organa!”
From somewhere in the house, Leia’s laughter echoes back. “Love you too!”