A/N: I don't know if I'll ever attempt to write (or finish and post) my own take on the whole trip to Bespin, but I figured I couldn't ruin anything with a little drabble. Except that this is flipping angsty anyway, for reasons.

Thank you again hewouldve for the beta! And thanks to all who read and review, especially the Guest reviewers, since I can't reply to you. For some reason, the site is not letting me see and reply to the logged in reviews on my previous fic, either, so I hope that'll be fixed soon and I can thank you all properly.

Walk your days on a wire
—Domestic kiss

It was day number six of their forced sublight trip towards the Bespin system and many things had changed—radically—from the first, but of course it had to be the smallest, simplest one of them that set off alarm bells in Leia's head.

Not the fact that she'd lost count of how many times they'd made out, or that they'd slept together a total of five times in the past three days (okay, there had been some sleeping). Or the fact that she shared his clothes, because her thermal suit had grown too hot even for space, and his bunk, because… well, because it happened. None of those things had done it. She'd decided early on, when she'd been standing on her tiptoes on the threshold of whatever had begun between them, that the most convenient thing for her was to shut down everything but her most primal feelings, so she had carefully avoided doing any sort of… dangerous thinking.

But right after a rather unfulfilling meal on day number six, he'd stood up, said, 'Let's go check the recycling unit now, Chewie, I don't like that noise it's makin',' and then he'd leaned across the table and kissed her.

In her extensive, work-in-progress inventory of Han Solo kisses, it was a very mild one. Innocent, even. Short, quick and casual, barely more than a peck. The kind her father would give her mother before they parted at the beginning of the day. And that was exactly why it had thrown Leia off balance from her (almost) perfectly-in-control situation.

He'd spent close to three years trying to convince everyone who'd listen that he had no interest in committing, not to a cause, not to a person—attempts that he'd managed to botch himself when he went and did something contrary to what he said. And now, on the brink of carrying out his long drawn out threat to leave (which had become a necessity, she knew), he'd gone and kissed her like they'd done that for ages, like they were just parting for work, like they'd do that every day for the rest of—

There it was, dangerous thinking.

Just how in tune with the rest of her life was the fact that the one thing she hadn't counted on blowing apart her plans was the one that did it? She should have known.

She'd been delusional to think she wouldn't be walking on a hot wire with this… No, she'd known. She'd known, and that was why she'd decided to shut most of her systems down when it came to Han. It was a good call, but she'd miscalculated how high the fall could be. And she was bound to fall, she'd always known that, too. Whatever decision she had made, however far she'd stayed away from him in the close quarters of this ship for the remainder of their trip, there was always going to be something to regret when the time came and he left.

So she'd chosen the high, hot wire, with its borrowed clothes and its shared bunk and all the kisses the Han Solo repertoire had to offer because, whatever the final cost was, she was sure it was better than the alternative.