When Finn saw her disembark that morning, Rey had moved with preternatural self-possession, a Jedi knight in truth and image with a legend's lightsaber clipped at her belt; it's almost too easy to forget that, now that she's just Rey again, sitting sprawled on an old couch with her feet up on the table and her head resting against his shoulder, saying, "They do this sort of spiced drink with honey and paricha root, and – hey, have you tried the dumplings here yet?"

"Have you been doing anything that isn't eating or drinking?" he asks, so she tells him about Jedi temples, abandoned and cavernous and full of hidden things, and he tells her stories in turn of the fire lakes of Rillis V and the cliff cities of Maru – but not the battles, though the crack of blaster fire is still sharp in his mind, and he's sure that beneath the desert calm of her eyes, she's also got things she's holding back; there will be time for the bad when they're done with the good, and he thinks they've got enough good times between them now to last until morning.

She gives him a speculative look when he says it, a different kind of hunger lighting in her eyes, and when she kisses him, he thinks of honey and spices, and the lonely tranquility of ruined places; she tells him later, after they've forgotten war for a time, that she was thinking of home.