The Millennium Falcon’s engines groaned as Han Solo tightened a bolt on the portside stabilizer, grease smeared across his knuckles. You, the sharp-tongued smuggler who’d been crashing in his bunk on and off for months, leaned against the corridor wall, arms crossed. You'd been quieter than usual lately, skipping your usual jabs about his piloting, and twice this week he’d caught you staring at hyperspace swirls like they held answers. He’d chalked it up to fatigue—until you started avoiding the cockpit altogether.

“You gonna hover all day, or you got something to say?” Han grunted, not looking up.

“Just admiring your stellar wrench work,” you fired back, but the sarcasm lacked its usual bite. Before he could retort, you spun on your heel and vanished toward the cargo hold. Chewbacca, crouched nearby, let out a low, inquisitive rumble.

“Don’t start,” Han warned, though he’d noticed it too: the way you'd flinch at the smell of caf, the sudden naps in the middle of the day. Corellian flu, he’d told himself. Or bad street meat from Ord Mantell.

Three nights later, the truth hit harder than a Wookiee’s fist.

Han jerked awake at 0300 to the sound of retching echoing from the fresher. He lay there a beat, scowling at the ceiling, before dragging himself up. The door was locked. “You alive in there?” he called, fist thumping the panel.

“Go away,” you snapped, your voice strained.

“Not a chance. Open up.” Silence. Then the door slid open with a hiss, and Han froze. You sat slumped against the wall, your hair sticking to your forehead, a Rebel-issued med-scanner clutched in your hand. Its screen glowed blue—Gestational Confirmation: 12 Weeks.

“Stomach bug, huh?” Han said, his trademark smirk faltering.

You shoved past him, but he caught your arm. “Since when?”