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She feels him go.  

Falling, falling, just as he has spent all his years with her; falling out of lightspeed and back into orbit, falling out of his chair half-drunk on Corellian ale, falling out of the cockpit and into her arms, stumbling over her boots at the foot of their bunk, falling into her bed the way he’d always claimed he’d fallen in love: gently, gently, then landing with force enough to knock himself silly, hard enough to see stars.

She feels him breathe in, the way he’d choked on his breath with his wet face buried in her hair the night the empire fell, the way he had taken one shallow breath the night their son was born too silent and too still: a quick gasp of air that he had held all through the terrifying first moments of their son’s life; the way he would catch his breath while whispering her name in the darkness, Leia, Leia; just like that, she feels him take that last breath, and hold it.

She takes a breath and holds it with him.  

She feels him all around her, catching a strand of her graying hair and twisting it around his finger just the way he had when they were young, wrapping her in his arms and covering her neck with kisses, young and in love and so fearless, laughing that he could fly so fast that all their suffering would be left behind, that it could never catch up, that nothing in the galaxy could ever touch them again.

Well.  It touches her now.

He falls out of her orbit. 

And she breathes out.