Jyn can't help herself, then; she laughs, a surprisingly light sound even to her, one she wouldn't be able to explain if she tried. It's leftover adrenaline, maybe, from her dream, or exhaustion or nerves, or maybe it's just that, lying here, she feels better than she has since they were waiting for their deaths, even with the shadow of all those other lives lost hanging overhead, even with all the uncertainty.

She can hear it still, has caught herself on more than one occasion mentally picking at the words like a scab on a newly-healing wound, Cassian telling her welcome home before they left for Scarif. They're a long way from Yavin 4, and there's no Alliance here, but she thinks for the first time in such a long time, hopeful and fearful and self-admonishing all at once, that she really is.

"I guess some things never change," she says, twisting to set the remote back down on the bedside table. When she settles against him again, she lets her hand rest, feather-light, on his chest, palm over his beating heart. Her own pulse flutters a little — adrenaline again; he'd been dead in her dream, and he isn't now — but she doesn't move, and doesn't give in to the temptation to look up at him and ask if this is okay. Drawing attention to it is only likely to make it seem that much more strange. "No matter what world you're in."