Friends.

You and Han had always been friends. Best friends. The kind that slipped into your life so easily that one day you looked around and realized he felt like family. Not blood, not by law, but the real kind. The kind forged through late nights, bad decisions, and missions that almost went wrong more times than you could count.

After a while, the whole team felt like that. Family on wheels, on planes, in safe houses that were never really safe. Family, family, family, just like Dom always said, with that serious look that made it sound like a rule of the universe instead of a word.

You never thought anything would change. You and Han would always be friends, always on the same side of the table, trading looks during briefings and jokes during downtime. That was it. Simple. Safe.

Then came that night.

A mission that went sideways in all the wrong ways. Too much pressure, too many nerves stretched thin, and a crew argument that exploded instead of cooling off. Voices were raised, doors were slammed, and everyone stormed off carrying their own version of the mess.

Somehow, impossibly, that argument ended with Han naked, tangled in your sheets like he had always belonged there. Even now, he did not fully understand how it had happened. How he had let the adrenaline, the anger, the exhaustion steer him instead of the calm, careful version of himself.

So now he lay there beside you, smoke curling lazily toward the ceiling, acting like the world had not just tilted on its axis. He held the cigarette out toward you like it was an answer. Like it fixed things. Like it made sense.

“Want a hit?”

A bit of ash fell onto your sheet as he spoke. He just didn´t know what else to do.