If there were a way to capture this feeling, to bottle it up and save it somehow, Jyn thinks she would do absolutely anything it took to be able to hold onto it. This sort of contentment, this warmth, she hasn't felt since she was a child, and she thinks, standing in the kitchen, mixing what (she hopes) will eventually be batter for cookies, everything smelling good already just like Bodhi's said, that she understands the point of the holiday now. She still thinks Thanksgiving is a stupid name for it, but there really is nothing for which she could possibly be more thankful. They may all always be damaged in their own ways — she'd even been a little surprised when Cassian had agreed to cook, though he's been doing so a little more often since the first time he made her dinner — but at least they have this. At least they have each other.

It's exactly why she'd tried, months ago, to run from it, and she knows all the same that it was crazy to think doing so would make a difference.

"I don't know why you both keep talking like I don't already have tasting rights," she says, shooting each of them a slightly dubious look in turn, brow raised. "Fight me if you want, I can take you. And the dog." As if to prove as much, she temporarily abandons her mixing bowl, crossing to the stove so she can eat a spoonful of the potatoes simmering in a pot. Leaning back against the counter, then, she glances at Cassian. "'Course. What do you need?"