The moment the maître left them alone — there was a sliding door granting them privacy — Cassian’s entire body language changed. He had been casually arrogant, overlooking the staff, but now like a snake shedding its skin, a weight left his shoulders and he loosened up, looking and sounding more natural as soon as he felt Inara’s embrace, with the brief whiff of shampoo and hair oils and expensive perfume. This was always a glimpse of an unfamiliar world; one he only ever passed through, fleetingly, but which Inara made home.

“You make it sound like I’m a flake. I'm hurt,” Cassian said, mock-affronted, hand pressed to his heart. But he took the seat next to her, rather than opposite — the better to see the exit — and then skimmed the drinks menu, glancing at the specialty cocktails. “A Corellian sunrise for me.”

They might run in different circles, but the Rebellion could always use a crew like Serenity: skilled smugglers, good shots, experienced with weaselling their way through imperial blockades. Old Browncoat attachments, and while her people weren’t exactly official insurgents— they were still sympathetic, and of assistance. The sort you could call in a pinch. Cassian had worked with them a few times, got along with them well enough; liked Inara in particular. His droid liked Wash, for some reason. Funny world.

“I’m honestly just glad to have made it off that forsaken planet alive. I was the only person capable of flying the ship, and they still kept threatening to kill me.”

He was clearly omitting pertinent context, like he always did — details were a need-to-know basis — but he’d share enough to make it funny.