Han Solo

Han was sitting in the curved bench of the Millennium Falcon’s galley with a half full glass of a colorless liquid in his hand. It was a loose, but familiar grasp. Like he had held a glass like this a thousand times and he knew exactly how to wrap his fingers around it comfortably. Whatever he was drinking smelled kind of like what leaks out of a power coupler when it’s busted.

He happens to be drinking it slowly, at least.

His other hand is occupied stroking through over the hair of a young lady who decided that his thigh ought to be her pillow while she took a nap.

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