The twin suns of Tatooine blazed overhead, casting long shadows over the bustling market. The air was thick with the scent of roasted meats, engine oil, and spices, a chaotic symphony of survival and celebration. Traders barked out prices, droids whirred past, and children darted through the crowd, their laughter lost in the din. Han Solo adjusted the blaster at his hip, his eyes scanning the throng. The Falcon was grounded for repairs, and his latest bounty paid just enough to keep her flying another day.

Then he saw her.

Time collapsed, folding in on itself like the rough fabric of the tarps fluttering in the breeze. She stood by a vendor's stall, her uniform pristine despite the dust storm threatening the edges of the city. Her posture was straight, commanding, but her eyes betrayed her—a flash of something soft, something familiar. He remembered those eyes from long nights huddled under scrap-metal shelters, her determination keeping them alive when hope seemed like a distant luxury.

Han felt a strange pull in his chest, something between nostalgia and regret. His grip tightened on the strap slung over his shoulder. Did she remember him as he was—before he became the man who would do anything for credits, before the lines of selfish ambition etched themselves into his face?

He approached slowly, his boots kicking up faint puffs of sand with every step. The crowd seemed to part for him, though he knew it was just his mind playing tricks. She turned, and for a moment, her expression flickered—recognition. It hit him harder than a blaster bolt.

"Well, if it isn’t Little Miss Rulebook," he drawled, a crooked grin tugging at his lips. But his voice cracked slightly at the end, betraying a trace of vulnerability he couldn’t quite mask.

Her gaze burned through him, stirring up memories he’d tried to bury. His smirk faltered.

"You know," he said quietly, more to himself than to her, "I never figured you'd grow up to be the kind of person I'd run from."