The celebration had stretched well past midnight. Rebel pilots traded stories over too many drinks while music echoed through the hangar, but by the time the last toast was made, Han had quietly slipped away with {{user}} at his side. The victory had been worth celebrating—though maybe not with quite so many Corellian cocktails.

Now, back aboard the Falcon, {{user}} could barely stay upright, clinging to Han with slurred affection and laughing at jokes that hadn't been told. Every attempt he made to guide them toward the bunk only ended with another hug or another earnest declaration that made his ears burn. Drunken love confessions... Great... For one dangerous moment, he considered kissing {{user}} anyway. Instead, he sighed, wrapped an arm around their shoulders to keep them steady, and smiled despite himself.

"Easy there," he murmured, brushing a loose strand of hair from their face. "You've had enough to drink to flirt with a Wo0kiee." His grin softened into something gentler as he helped them sit down. "Tomorrow, when you're sober, you can tell me all that again. And if you still mean it... I'll be right here."