Disclaimer: I don't own any of this, but I sure wish I did! Oh, and I make some references to some very well-known stories as part of an illustration because we are all familiar with it.

THE INVITATION

In retrospect, Han should have known something was up the moment he entered the apartment. To begin with, there were delicious garlicky, tomato-y smells wafting out of the kitchen and he could hear someone singing in sultry, dulcet tones along with a soft, jazzy song playing on the central media-audio unit. Best of all, there was no C-3P0 immediately greeting him with his constant, polite, helpful chatter and annoying mannerisms.

He paused a moment, cocking his head. It wasn't like his wife to be home before him, especially at six o'clock in the evening. Not even on Friday, such as it was. In the three months they'd been married, Han could count on one hand the number of times she'd beat him home. And he could even do so if he were missing three fingers on that hand. As for the wonderful smells from the kitchen, now there was a puzzle; Leia and cooking simply did not go together, kind of like wearing a fur-lined parka on Tatooine. "Lei?" he called out tentatively, his right hand automatically resting lightly on the butt of his blaster.

"In the kitchen," she called back.

He crossed the living room and paused in the doorway to the kitchen to find his beautiful little princess chopping vegetables for a salad, still softly singing with the music, a glass of wine next to her as she worked.

"Hey," she said, looking up at him with a smile, the one that made his heart flutter every time she flashed it. He noticed that her hair was still up and she was still dressed in the slim, gray skirt, silky violet colored blouse, and heels she'd worn to work, so she couldn't have beat him home by that much.

"Hey," he answered, returning her smile and made his way around the counter so he could greet her properly. "You're home early," he growled gently in her ear as he slid his arms around her from behind and began to nuzzle her neck.

Leia leaned back into him, enjoying his loving attention, and continued to tear lettuce. They began to sway a little to the music. "The last meeting of the day was cancelled. The constituents from Belasphere are delayed until next week, so I left early and I thought I'd surprise you with dinner for a change. Surprised?"

Keeping one arm around her, Han reached for her wine glass and took a sip, "I am, yes. You, home early. And dinner . . . and it smells . . . (another sip) . . . good. Really good. What, um, what did you, um, make?" He tried to keep his voice light and casual.

Leia stopped swaying with him momentarily and turned her head against his shoulder to look up at him. The careful, oh-so-innocent expression he wore made her laugh. "Relax, flyboy, I didn't make anything: It's a lasagna from that Sintilian market in the Worlds' Food District by the Senate building. I read the directions - it's fully cooked; I just put it in the oven."

Her attempts at cooking throughout their relationship had been . . . well . . . interesting to say the least, but mostly it was an endless source of amusement for Han, Chewie, and Luke, and it had been a bit of a sore spot for her until the rice incident a few weeks before their wedding. Her past efforts had produced burned but somehow runny pancakes for breakfast one morning. A shriveled, blackened roast for Lovers' Day, complete with exploding tubers in the microwave. But the day the rice had melted and fused into the bottom of a pan was the last straw. She'd thrown the whole thing away in a frustrated fit of temper until Han had cajoled and teased her defeated, angry tears into laughter and kisses . . . and more. They'd sat huddled on the kitchen floor of her apartment, leaning against the dishwasher, her anger at herself spent after he'd talked her down from her tantrum. She had only wanted to cook for Han as he cooked for her, to take care of him and show him how much she loved and appreciated him, she'd lamented. What was so hard about that? Beings did it every day. It was no big deal. Except for her. For her, the kitchen always felt like some sort of high-tech, research laboratory and she didn't know how to read any of the formulas or how to use the equipment. Han had explained to her that her inability to cook was actually very sweet and endearing to him. She'd raised a doubtful eyebrow at him and muttered, "This better be good," but he'd persisted. He'd quirked his lips thoughtfully and finally said, "Honey, you're like Superman." She'd raised both eyebrows at that. "Superman can do anything – he's strong, brave, able to leap tall buildings – you know the rest. You're like that. You can outthink and outsmart any politician or ruler and you don't back down – you're not afraid to play hardball because you're quick-witted and sharp-tongued when you have to be. You're an expert at self-defense and resisting torture. I've seen you wield a light saber and you've shot stormtroopers like metal ducks at a shooting gallery; you handle a blaster like a boss (he'd winked at her so she'd get his double meaning). You've led armies into battle, been part of covert recon missions, you've helped repair the Falcon dozens of times, and on top of all that and more, you're the most beautiful, sexiest, most fair-minded, thoughtful, head-strong woman I've ever met. In other words, you're practically perfect, like Superman. Except for one thing: Superman's weakness is kryptonite. It's just one small thing, one chink in his armor, but that doesn't stop him from being super; it just means he's human, like the rest of us mere mortals. He'd be pretty scary if he didn't have that - how could we ever relate to him? And you," he'd looked down at her affectionately, "you've got your, um, 'challenges' in the cooking department." She'd snorted laughter at his choice of words and he'd joined her, but she'd understood what he meant and it had eased her bruised ego. She remembered slipping onto his lap, straddling him, and saying, "Very smooth, Solo," and much later, they'd ordered takeout. So she'd accepted her limitations in the kitchen, embraced them even as it was a source of humor for them both, and left the cooking to everybody else, and Han in particular.

Now, Han returned her laugh and pulled her closer, resuming their little dance. "Need any help?"

"Mmm. Yes, actually. First, I need you to kiss me hello," she said with sly merriment, turning her head again so he could comply.

His lips twitched a smile before he leaned down and covered her mouth with his own, kissing her slowly, tasting her tongue with his. Long moments later, when he finally eased his head back, he whispered, "Hi, sweetheart." The room had definitely gotten warmer, he thought.

"Hi," she whispered back almost shyly, a bit dazed and atremble. He always affected her this way – a look, a smile, a touch, a kiss, his voice, and suddenly she turned to jelly. "You have a good day?"

"Pretty good. Better now," he murmured. He'd spent the day with Carlist Rieekan strategizing another contact mission. He still didn't have much use for some of the rest of the former Rebel Alliance leaders, now New Republic leaders, after the Hapan debacle, but he trusted and respected Carlist for all of his help and support of his and Leia's relationship.

"Good. Will you pour me a little more wine?"

"Mmm." Han gave her another slow, deep kiss before moving to the cabinet to fetch his own glass and, while Leia finished with her salad, he poured them both a glass of her favorite red Arborian wine.

"That lasagna is coming out in about a minute," she said as she washed her hands at the sink. "I was hoping you'd make some of your famous cheesy-garlic bread to go with it? I bought all the stuff."

"Sure, sweetheart," he said, beginning to hum along with the music himself. She'd watched him make it many times, but didn't dare trust herself with it.

After removing the lasagna from the oven and setting it on the counter to cool, Han washed his hands, and had Leia cut the loaf of bread as he melted butter on the stove. They sipped wine and talked and teased each other as she assembled the pieces on a baking sheet while he grated two cloves of garlic into the butter along with a tiny splash of olive oil and whisked it together. Leia watched him spoon the mixture onto each bread slice, then top each one with grated parmeyer cheese. "Big finish," he said, popping the sheet into the upper rack in the oven after turning it to broil for four minutes. "Are we eating in here or out there?" he asked, indicating the dining table in the great room of their apartment.

"Why don't we eat out on the terrace? It's such a nice, mild evening," she said, pulling dishes out of the cabinet.

"Pretty romantic evening you have planned," he commented with a smile, refilling their wine glasses. "By the way, where's Goldenrod, anyway? I keep expecting him to barge in here any minute now to interrupt us."

Leia shook her head and began to pluck silverware out of a drawer. "He had to power down to install some new updates. He usually does that during the night, but I suggested he do it now and we'd see him in the morning."

"Why, Princess Leia, I think you're trying to seduce me," Han teased, leaning against the counter, "and I just might let you have your way with me if – "

Leia looked up at his abrupt silence to find him with his hands on his hips, a confused, suspicious frown on his handsome face.

"What?" she asked, her voice only going up a little. A tell-tale blush began to creep onto her cheeks.

"Out with it, Highnessness," he drawled, holding her gaze. "You're home before nightfall, we're having dinner out on the terrace, no Threepio? I get the feeling you're about to tell me they're sending you on a two month political tour to the Outer Rim."

Leia opened her mouth to protest then stopped. "No. It's not like that; it's nothing bad, Han. In fact, it might even be . . . fun?" She bit her lower lip waiting for his reaction.

He lowered his chin and reached for his wine glass. "Fun?" He took a healthy swig and again leaned casually against the counter. "This I gotta hear."

"Um, maybe we should fix our plates and take the bread out of the oven first," she suggested. "It's something I have to show you and it's going to take a few minutes."

Leia could feel his eyes on her as she began to cut large wedges of lasagna.

"Sweetheart, just so you know, my idea of fun is tickets to the smashball finals," he groused, not without amusement. In fact, he rather enjoyed making her squirm a little. As long as she wasn't going off to gods' knew where for an extended period of time, he relaxed a little. The oven timer went off. "Or even better," he continued, removing the hot baking sheet out of the oven, "if you want to model some see-through lingerie for me, I'm up for it. Other than that, I have a bad feeling about this."

Leia finished placing salad on each plate, a little smile playing on her lips as she rolled her eyes at him, catching his skeptical, but playful mood. "Oh, come on, then. The sooner we do this, the better." She grabbed his hand and led him to the couch in the living room.