For as hard as she tries to prevent it, Cassian flickers in her mind's eye like a holovid from home: the black depths of his eyes, rivaling the skies overhead, the skies they'd seen and watched together through the viewports; how similar and all together different they are from Kira's, as though they are two sets of parallel galaxies created out of the same birthing explosion and cosmic shift, yet weathered and expanded differently over time; comparisons of Cassian's lips to the ones pushed so desperately against hers now, where Kira's are more present, more supple, more substantial in their physicality and, in some ways, the delicacy of their movements and the hunger driving them;

and before the thoughts memories guilt can consume her and pull her away, Kira pries them apart, and Jyn sucks in a sharp, sudden breath, as though breaking the surface of the water in the fountain for the first time all over again.

Lungs and chest rise and fall like the tide she remembers on Scarif, eyes fluttering but refusing to part. The hand at his jaw slithers its way towards the back of his head, fingers curling delicately at the base of his neck. She exhales a huff of a laugh - though it sounds more like an expulsion of air than a verbalization of humor or amusement.

"No one has to do anything," she repeats, echoing her statement from only moments before, though it might as well be another life - the crushing of lips and friction of skin creating enough heat in her and in the battered room around them to spark engines and propel them from one planet to another, without ever leaving the ground.

Her eyes flicker open for only a moment before she once again banishes the space from her to him, from lip to lip, and makes contact for a second time.