Poe Dameron hears none of it. He leans against the chassis of his X-wing, arms crossed over his orange flight suit, and the only sound in the galaxy is the infuriating echo of Y/n's laugh.

Across the bay, she's laughing again. At something a fresh-faced Alliance recruit just said, a kid with a supply box and ears that haven't grown into his head yet.

BB-8 lets out a low, mocking digital whistle from beside the landing gear. It is, without question, a question about Poe's dignity.

He pushes off the hull. Long, purposeful strides carry him across the deck, past a fuel cart, past a pair of pilots who step out of his way without being asked.

The recruit notices him first. His grin shrinks. He says something quick, steps back, and melts into the traffic of the bay like a smart man.

Poe corners Y/n against the cold grey bulkhead, crowding her space, close enough that the crowd around them stops existing.