Poe Dameron has a type. It defies gender or sex; it has nothing to do with age or species.
It's the way Leia sighs at him sometimes, and he can see her marching down that corridor towards Vader.
It's the gleam of light off Suralinda's fangs; the way C'ai Threnalli shuts off his thrusters mid-dive to scorch through a TIE like a comet.
It's the set of Finn's jaw after Canto Bight.
Most of all, it's the delicacy of Rey's thin fingers stretched skyward, a hundred boulders held in mid-air, with the sweat of battle still drying on her skin.