Their Lady Adyé [Star Wars]

The Trouble With Smugglers

"So, have you heard the rumours yet?"

Athara looked up from the console in front of her as Han strolled onto the bridge of the Flame to all but throw himself into the comm officer's seat. She nearly rolled her eyes at him as he settled back to lounge comfortably before looking to her for an answer.

"Which ones? There's always something," she answered dryly, looking back to the readouts in front of her. Next to her, L4 chirruped softly, drawing her attention to the auxiliary reactor output. It wasn't quite as high as she wanted, leading her to think a visit to Madal might be in order. It wasn't that she didn't trust the competency of the Rebellion's maintenance crews, she just trusted the old Duro more. She had a feeling he had a soft spot for the Flame.

Han grinned, lacing his fingers behind his head as he crossed his long legs at the ankle out in front of him.

"The ones about you and me." Athara drew back, frowning in bewilderment before looking blankly to Han. Her and... His face was the picture of amusement.

If she didn't know better, she might have been worried he was intrigued by the idea. But luckily Athara knew better. They were just friends. Purely platonic. Nothing more and no desire for there to be more. Honestly? He was beginning to feel more like a brother to her the longer she knew him. He really did feel rather like family at times. Further, she got the distinct feeling it was the same for him.

And that was without even relying on the Force to tell her as much.

Though, it did confirm it.

As what he'd sprung on her sank in, she let out an inadvertent snort.

"As if," she scoffed. An overly dramatic expression of hurt crossed his face. Athara had to bite her cheek to keep from laughing outright and ruining his fun.

"And there I thought we might have something, honey," he drawled with a charming grin. Athara snickered, filing and dismissing the readouts and sending L4 off with a fond pat. Swivelling her seat, she turned to face him, stretching out herself to nearly mirror his lounging posture.

"You're not really my type, Solo," she dismissed with a lazy gesture. He chuckled, letting himself sink a little lower in his own chair, still searching for the perfect position. With a satisfied sound, he relaxed the rest of the way when he found it, his lanky form going nearly limp.

"Yeah, I supposed you're not really my type, either," he said with a funny little grin. Athara smirked. That was for sure.

Yes, she seemed at a glance to check many of his boxes, really; she was smart, stubborn and spirited and she could banter and bicker and trade insults easily with the cocky smuggler until all the suns burnt out—but there was one crucial thing she wasn't.

She wasn't a certain fiery Alderaanian Princess...and she wasn't afraid to say as much.

He wrinkled his nose at her smug, knowing comment, before shrugging dismissively. Too dismissively, really; Athara easily recognized the deflection. But then his eyes began to twinkle roguishly and a wide grin split his face.

"Yeah, and I suppose I'm not a certain blondie-haired Tatooine X-wing pilot, am I." She huffed, resisting the urge to cross her arms defensively even as she fought the way her cheeks suddenly began to warm.

But he seemed to pick up on her discomfort just as she'd picked up on his, and if anything, his smug grin widened further. "He likes you back, you know." She shot him a pointedly skeptical look, ignoring the happy way her stomach flipped. She supposed it was possible...he did have a habit of looking at her in a funny, thoughtful sort of way that made her feel like she'd had one too many of Reem's Selonian ales; sort of warm and bubbly.