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Chapter Text

He didn’t have time for this. 

Equal parts annoyed and impatient, he threw the letter down on the table with a decisive, “No. Even for Kenobi, I can’t stand to be distracted. The answer is no.” 

Across the table, Ben’s secretary reacted to the outburst with his usual beleaguered calm. “I didn’t think Kenobi had a child.”

“He doesn’t,” Ben said, annoyed all over again. “This is his godchild . A random orphan he’s sponsored.” 

Hux reached across the table and picked up the letter, giving the lines a cursory scan. Without looking up, he said, “You’d be a fool to say no. Don’t you want to do him a favor?”

“Not at the cost of my own sanity.”

“Whatever sanity you lose will be well accounted for by the money you earn when he signs our contract to build our railway through his woodland.” 

Despite his fortune, Ben Solo only truly valued three things: his privacy, his liberty, and his library. In that order. So it was beyond irritating to find that Benjamin Kenobi, the man whose property sat directly in the way of his proposed rail line from New York up into Canada, was asking such a ludicrous favor.

Let some young buck into his library so he could “study the inner working of steam engines” and write a summary for the elder Kenobi? Absurd. Absurd. Why couldn’t Kenobi just go out and buy the damn books if he wanted them so bad? Why did he insist on personally imposing on Ben, when he’d been nothing but decent to the stubborn old man? Given him a more than generous offer for the rights to a narrow passage of land at the edge of Kenobi’s vast estate. Not even asked for the damn mineral rights, for God’s sake. 

It was clearly a test of some sort since the old codger knew he had Ben on the ropes to close a very lucrative deal, and Ben hated tests. He was a straight shooter. Blunt to the point of rude, but honest in his ruthlessness. He didn’t appreciate Kenobi responding to his offer with a bad-faith imposition. It rankled, and he hated being rankled. To be fair, he hated anything that got in his way or slowed him down, but this was just such an inconvenience and it required a stranger to enter his house. No, not just his house, his library. 

Hux stared at him, used to Ben’s surly silences. 

Ben rubbed his temple. “I don’t want some sophomore getting his dirty fingers all over my books, invading my space. And two weeks? My god, that’s an eternity.”

“It’s only during the day,” Hux said, setting down the letter. “And two weeks only seems like a long time to people whose sense of time operates at your scale. You should accept it. Give the kid access to the books, and then demand an exorbitant favor in return.”

“I’d rather go to dinner at the Astor’s,” Ben muttered, taking a long drag on his whiskey. 

“We need this deal. If Kenobi won’t sell his property, the railroad line north will stall completely. We’d have to plan a completely different route, and we cannot afford that kind of delay. Are your books really more important to you than this deal?” 

Ben took another drag on his whiskey and stared around the room, ignoring Hux’s question and the sumptuous wallpaper and the sideboard piled high with the day’s newspapers. Would Kenobi really pull out of the deal if Ben said no to hosting his godchild? Nobody had ever even heard of the boy before. 

It seemed a hardball move for someone like him, but then, Kenobi was an old fashioned, upstate gentleman. Maybe he thought that Ben, with his business education and his cutthroat business practices, needed a lesson in how the older generation did things. His mother had said that, once; that business relationships for that sort of man were as much about mutual understanding as community of financial interest. 

Ben had grown up not far from Kenobi’s place at his own family’s country estate. He knew how to deal with men like him. He just had to grit his teeth and play nice. For the moment.

“Fine. But he can only come to the house in town , I won’t have him at the country house. And let him know that he can come for ten days during the hours of 11:00 am and 5:00 pm and not a minute longer.” 

Rey Niima arrived at the door of Mr. Solo’s brownstone with a valise full of notes, a ham sandwich, and a letter of introduction. 

This was going to be a wonderful thing. Truly, actually wonderful. Sure, the minute she’d stepped out of the carriage it had started raining so hard she’d had to use her body to protect her precious papers from getting utterly ruined, which had soaked her thoroughly. And it was true that the hired carriage had almost certainly charged her twice the usual amount because she was a young woman traveling alone. But all that she could get over, because she was finally standing in front of the doors to the Solo townhouse, and she was going to get to read for several hours a day in a private library. 

Mr. Kenobi’s kind voice rang through her head. 

He’s got the finest library from here to the Met, my girl. You read up, and come back to our old man and tell me what I need to know before I sign my soul to the devil.

Nothing would stop her from doing a good job for her godfather. He asked so little of her, it was a treat to be able to pay back his immense kindness with this favor. Besides, she’d been idle for too long. Taking classes at Barnard was all well and good, but this was important. It concerned business and industry, and she was part of it. Maybe her godfather would be impressed by her work, and agree to take her on at his firm. 

Yes. This was going to work. She just had to do a good job and avoid the notoriously surly man whose house she was going to be spending six hours a day in for the next week. 

As she straightened her skirt and tried to smooth down the sodden mess of her hair under the welcoming awning of the stone archway, she took a deep breath to steady her nerves. 

But before she could raise a hand to knock, the door opened for her. It was a massive thing, swinging inwards with a whoosh of air strong enough to set the ribbons of her sensible hat fluttering in front of her. When her eyes adjusted to the dark, she found herself standing in front of a red-haired man wearing spectacles and a confused expression.

Behind him, a huge staircase swept up onto the second story. The stairs were flanked by big, dark wood doors on either side, forming a narrow hallway between the middle. At the end of the corridor, she could just make out the silhouette of a huge stuffed bear standing on its back paws, as if prepared to defend the house from intruders. 

She loved it. 

“Mr. Solo,” she said, beaming. “I’m so pleased to meet you, thank you so much for agreeing to let me visit your library.”

The man stared at her. “You are–” 

He stopped, like he couldn’t think of the next part of the sentence.

“I’m Miss Rey Niima, pleased to meet you, Mr. Solo.”

She jutted her hand out for him to shake, except in the process she lost her grip on her valise. It tumbled across the threshold, and the faulty catch she’d been just about to fix for the past few weeks gave way. Her papers, books, pens, and reference material tumbled into the foyer with such a tumult that it seemed to echo around that fine house. 

Rey was so mortified that for a moment, she was rendered unable to speak. 

“Oh, good god, ” Mr. Solo said, holding up both hands as if he couldn’t believe the level of impropriety displayed by the young woman on his doorstep. She hadn’t even made it off the stoop, and she’d already ruined her first impression. 

Mortified, Rey immediately knelt down and began scooping up her papers, trying to get them off the floor before the wind from the open door behind her caught them and sent them flying into the air. 

Scrabbling to grab a bottle of ink that was rolling away from her, she exclaimed, “I do beg your forgiveness, Mr. Solo–” 

“For heavens’ sake, I’m not Mr. Solo, I’m his secretary, Armitage Hux.” 

She paused in her attempt to retrieve the ink bottle and stared up at him from the ground. Oh. He wasn’t Mr. Solo, he was his secretary. So her terrible first impression had, at least, not been on the man to whom she owned her current good fortune.

He narrowed his eyes. “And you are not the godchild of Kenobi, you are a wo–”

But he didn’t get to finish, because at that moment a booming voice came echoing down the hallway, every inch as rumbling and loud as the steam engines she’d come here to study. His voice had such force and strength that she thought it must have carried out the open door behind her, spilled out into the street, and startled the pigeons roosting in the park just beyond the road.

“Hux, I was very clear,” came the voice, and then a door opened at the other end of the hallway and the stuffed bear was suddenly dwarfed by the approaching figure of an immense, furious man. “He could come conditional on my peace not being disturbed.”

He reached the foyer, looked at Hux, who was just standing there with a hand over his mouth, and then looked at Rey, kneeling on the ground, her hand still outstretched to grab the ink bottle that was currently rolling away from her. Rolling right toward him. The bottle bumped into the fine leather of his shoe with a muted, pathetic thunk.  

The man looked down at the ink bottle, over at Rey, and then back to Hux. “Good god, what’s all this?” 

Hux regained his composure. “Mr. Solo, I regret to inform you that there’s been a miscommunication. The godchild of Mr. Kenobi is not, as we thought, a young man.” 

At this, Mr. Solo’s gaze snapped to her. 

She’d thought he’d been looking at her before. She was wrong. This time, he looked at her, turning the force of his gaze on her where she sat, sopping wet, her hair a mess, her clothes and papers strewn all over the fine inlaid wood floor of his foyer with nothing but a letter of introduction and a desire to learn more about steam engines to her name. 

He looked at her, and she could see at once he wasn’t the kind of man that she was used to, not at all. He had a broad nose, narrowed eyes, and an expression that seemed stolen from nature, all trajectory calculations and sightlines. He reminded her of the paintings of George Washington she’d seen in the Metropolitan Museum, except where George was white haired and kindly, this man was dark and calculating. It didn’t help that she was still kneeling on the floor and he was towering over her with such an imperious stare that she didn’t even dare to move. 

But when he spoke, his voice was very quiet. “You are… Miss Niima?” 

It was like touching a tram wire, the way the words leapt out of her. “Yes. I’m Miss Niima.”

Mr. Solo looked over her head at the street revealed by the open door behind her. She realized he must be looking for the carriage that brought her here. “Did you come alone?”

Remembering herself, she began to flip through the papers in her arms. “Yes, I have a letter from my godfather–” 

But Mr. Solo only crouched down in front of her, bringing his eyes level to hers. It was so unexpected to be suddenly face to face with him that her hands went still. He stared at her, no doubt looking for a resemblance. Of course, he would find none. Mr. Kenobi was only her godfather, and nobody but the holy mother knew what her parents looked like. 

Her voice was a strangled thing, but she had to say something. “I’m so sorry for the terrible first impression.”

His lips twitched, and when he spoke, his voice was even softer. “It seems you’ve had quite a trial getting to me, haven’t you?”

Her arms still full of paper, she could only nod, transfixed by how very dark and subtle his eyes were. It reminded her of the reflection pools at Mr. Kenobi’s home, staring into them on hot summer days until she’d fallen asleep in the grass. 

Mr. Solo held out a hand, and for a second she thought he wanted her to shake it. But it was just the ink bottle, dwarfed by the size of his palm. “Here. I believe this belongs to you.”

He was far enough away that she had to reach to take it from him, bringing her hand close enough that she could feel the fine wool of his suit jacket, and smell the cedar scent of his aftershave. She wrapped her fingers around the ink and pulled it back to her, just barely remembering to give him a polite smile and a thank you. 

He gave her another of those inscrutable looks. Then he rose to his feet, turned to Hux, and coolly said, “Shut the door, Hux.” 

Mr. Solo led her into the room at the back of the hallway he’d stormed out of five minutes ago, which proved to be a study. Not the library, but a sensible, hard-working room with a fireplace and big windows opening onto a narrow garden beyond. The massive desk and marble fireplace dwarfed the room. He seemed to decorate in extremes, this Mr. Solo. No small tables for catching gloves or calling cards, just foundational pieces that caught the eye. 

“Sit,” said the man, pointing at the chair opposite his desk. Years of being taught by nuns had given Rey a good instinct for which commands needed swift obedience, and she sat with alacrity, smoothing out her sodden skirts. 

Mr. Solo sat down behind his desk, steepling his hands. “So. You’re my visiting scholar, I see?”

The light was different in this room, and she could see that for all his vigor, he had shrewd, intelligent eyes. 

She cleared her throat. “I’ll only trouble you for a few days. I’ll arrive in the morning and leave before dinner. Though you may not believe me, given my unfortunate arrival, but I’m normally quite good at staying out of the way.” 

He leaned back in his chair. “And what do you want to research?”

“Steam engines,” she said simply. 

“Why here?”

“I’m told you have the finest collection of books about locomotives in the country.”

“Many of which you could buy yourself.”

She cleared her throat. “That’s not true, sir. Many of the schematics are out of print, or contained in private hands.”

“The University has copies.”

“Women are not permitted entry to Columbia’s engineering library,” she said, quite prepared for this discussion.

He frowned. “Why the devil didn’t Kenobi mention he had a granddaughter?” 

“Goddaughter, sir,” she corrected. “And I might ask if you ever inquired about Mr. Kenobi’s family situation, sir?”

The question caught him off guard, apparently, because whatever he’d been about to say did not make it past his lips. He stared at her, lips twitching for a moment, and then looked away. She had the odd sense that she’d pleased him, somehow, but she wasn’t sure why, since she’d just been very rude.

The expression passed, and he shifted back into that serious, resolute expression again. “So, you turn up at my doorstep.” 

“I was invited,” she pointed out mildly, gesturing at the letter she’d placed on the table between them. Before he could ask another of those probing questions, she said, “I promise, I’ll leave you quiet alone sir. You’ll forget I’m even here. Merely show me where the library is and how I can let myself in, and I’ll be as quiet as a mouse.” 

He sighed. “Well, I can see you’ve set your little heart on it, and I’m not such a beast to deny a young woman something she wants so badly.” 

Her heart leapt. “You’ll let me?”

Another twitch of his lips. “Yes, girl. I will.”

Relief flooded her. It was going to work. She was going to be able to find just the information she needed. “Oh, thank you Mr. Solo, thank you so much.”

His smile was gentle. So was his voice. “On one condition.”

She froze. Of course there was a catch. There was always a catch with this type of man. “Which is?”

“You’ll have dinner with me. Every night.” 

She paled. She hadn’t brought dinner clothes, expecting to find a surly, irritated businessman who would have no time for her. Besides that, she didn’t think it was appropriate that they should share meals. Bad enough she’d be spending hours each day at his home unchaperoned. Even though Mr. Solo was more than a decade older than she was, he was still unmarried. 

No. Certainly not. What would they say at her college? What would the boarding house land lady say if she found out? She could lose her room. 

“You said I was to be out of the house before five,” she said.

“I’ve changed my mind.”

“Well, I’m afraid must be home before sundown,” she deflected, giving him her prettiest smile. 

He appeared not to have heard her. “After dinner, you’ll be driven home safe and sound in my carriage. I’ll even pick you up in the morning, if you like.”

What had Mr. Kenobi said about this man? That he drove a devil of a bargain? She set her jaw. 

“I could never impose. What if instead, I have you over to have dinner with my godfather next week? I make the biscuits myself, and–”

“I’m afraid the dinner will be here, and you will be my guest, or there will be no books.”

His tone was friendly. Casual. Like they were discussing the price of fabric or the condition of the roads. But the steel beneath his eyes was what made her hesitate. She had an acute sense that he would not budge on this matter, and she knew couldn’t lose this chance. 

She gave him a smile. “You drive a hard bargain, Mr. Solo.”

“I’m afraid you’ll find me an exacting patron, Miss Niima.” 

She had to get to the books about the railways. She had to. Her future depended on this.

“Very well, dinner at your home every evening,” she said, and the words fell in that elegant, durable room like a log turning over on the fire, cackling in a spray of smoke and potential.

He smiled. “Wonderful."

He thought she might be about to cry when he finally took her to the library room. Originally, the space had been designed as an art gallery, with skylights and a heavily grated fireplace on either end to provide heat without smoke. But he’d had no interest in art, and instead he'd had the narrow room refitted with wall-to-wall shelves. Of course, it was a fraction of the collection contained at the family estate, but it contained all the books he personally found useful.World maps, cultural ethnographies, natural history, science, mechanics, and the like. Even a few novels.

He explained all this to her, enjoying the way those big eyes of hers followed every word. Though she was past twenty, she had the wide-eyed eagerness of a student, and he liked the way she looked up at him. It was like he could see her thinking, trying hard to remember everything he said. He liked the way she walked on soft feet, her hands occasionally writing the ghost of a memo into the air at her side. 

The mouse was quick, that was obvious.

“You can sit here,” he said, gesturing at the oak table and the desk chair pulled up to the side. It had a rudimentary oil lamp for reading, and although it had never bothered him before, it suddenly looked suddenly shabby and insufficient.

“The lamp is being replaced,” he declared, though she scarcely heard him in her eagerness to sit down and test out the chair, unpacking her valise and setting her notebooks, ink, and pen out on the tabletop. 

That done, she turned to him and smiled. “Thank you ever so much,” she said. “I have everything I need.” 

His chest felt tight, suddenly. “Fine. If you need anything, just ring the bell, it goes down to the kitchen. One of the maids can bring you a tray.” 

“I’m sure I’ll be fine,” she said. “And I promise not to be a bother.”

It irritated him, that trait of hers. That she liked making herself small, insisting on how little she expected from the world. It made made him angry, though he couldn't say why.

“Dinner will be at eight,” he told her. 

Her smile faltered. “So late?” 

“I’m afraid I picked up some unfortunate habits during my time on the continent.”  

She looked askance in a way that made him wonder if she'd ever left the country before. If she'd ever left New England. She said, “Well. Eight o’clock will be fine.”

Savage pleasure ripped through him. “Good. See you at dinner.”

“Oh, Mr. Solo?” she said, her voice nervous.

He turned around, and she looked so uneasy that he was certain she was about to ask him for something. He was ready for it. Hungry for it. He wanted to be beseeched. He wanted her to want things from him, to hold out that fine, small hand and look up at him with those big eyes and those lips and ask him in a pretty, sweet voice. With a ravenous realization, he knew that what he wanted was for her to beg.

But she only said, “I haven’t brought an evening dress. I apologize for being dressed improperly at dinner.” 

He set his jaw, nodded tersely, and left. 

The rest of the day, he worked. He had meetings at the office, and he managed to forget all about the woman in his library for most of the time he spent speaking to representatives from the trade commission, the iron foundry, and the local city planning council. 

With that complete, he went to his club and had a whiskey and soda. There was a race that weekend, and Poe had a tip about the odds. Finn had a very interesting article about grain futures. It was the kind of afternoon he liked best: no one in the room was incompetent, the drinks were good, and the information was both discrete and trustworthy. 

He had never had a worse time. 

His mind kept wandering out the door, down the street, past the park, and back into his infernal house, where he imagined Rey Niima sitting in his library reading with her pretty little hands and her pert mouth.

By the time he arrived home, it was well dark, and he was so impatient that when he took his hat off, he hurled it at the couch and didn’t bother to see where it landed. Shedding his jacket, he walked quietly up the stairs to the second floor, then even more quietly up the stairs to the third floor. The door to the library was ajar, and when he looked through the gap he could see her. 

She was hunched over, eyes narrowed and flitting between the page and a piece of paper. Her posture was terrible, but her focus was undeniable. She chewed her bottom lip, her focus entirely on the book in front of her. Taking the opportunity, he inched the door open just slightly further. It was absurd, what he was doing; spying on someone in his own home, someone who he'd invited, who was there at his invitation. He had a right to walk in and speak to her, if he so chose. And yet, he peered in, transfixed by the sight of her.

The fire had burned down to a low ember, and the oil lamp (a new, vastly superior one) gave off most of the light in the room. Beyond the windows, the street lights had been lit, throwing a steady yellow haze into the room. The street beyond teemed with traffic, but she seemed not to notice the clamor. He supposed she was born in the city. Maybe a girl like that didn’t notice the din at all. He wondered what she would make of the country house, with its thick stone walls and dense, reverent silence. The clock chimed 7:45.

He left the way he’d come in.

At eight o’clock sharp, Rey walked down the narrow stairs, one hand trailing across the polished banister and the other smoothing down her hair in an attempt to look more presentable for dinner. Well, to put it more accurately, attempting to look more presentable for her temporary benefactor.

In most ways, she was good at this sort of thing. Orphaned at a young age, she’d been a dependent soul all her life. Mr. Kenobi had been a kind and steady presence, paying for her schooling and now her tuition at Barnard, god bless him. But there had been others; a great aunt back in Switzerland, an affectionate former professor, a kindly landlady. She’d been very lucky. She knew that. However, looking around Ben Solo’s stately townhouse, it was easy to see just what she’d been missing out on. Though the building was relatively new, it had a sense of solidity and permanence she’d never found in her boarding school, or the sequence of ladies’ boarding houses she’d stayed at since she’d left her finishing school.

And the books. Mr. Solo’s collection was every inch as incredible as she’d been told. Volumes on volumes, none of them moth-eaten or molding. Complete collections, not just one piece of a three volume set. Leather covers and some even with their pages still uncut. To think that it wasn’t even the full collection, that there was more sequestered in his family home in the country. 

Lost in thought, she arrived at the room Hux had identified as the dining room and collected herself. Then she walked in. 

It was another long, narrow room, but where the rest of the house was functional and masculine, this room was an explosion of ornate finery. A table big enough to seat a party of twenty people ran the length of the room, and an elaborately trimmed fireplace held up a gilt mirror the size of her bedroom floor at the boarding house. A chandelier lit the whole room in a silky, fragmented glow, and candlesticks lined the center of a table laid with more food than she’d ever seen in her life.

Mr. Solo was seated in an armchair pulled up by the fire, one leg crossed casually over the other. When he saw her, he folded the paper and set it on a table that seemed far too delicate for a man like him. He stood, and he cut a contrasting figure against the glint and gold. Like a basalt boulder in the middle of a china shop, he seemed the one immovable, unbreakable thing in the world.

“Ah, there she is. How did you get on today, Miss Niima?”

To her relief, she saw that he was dressed casually as well, just in his white button down with his jacket draped over the back of the chair. It was unexpectedly considerate. She smiled, crossing the room to him and the places set at the far end of the room. 

“Very well, thank you.”

“Good,” he said gruffly, pulling out a chair for her. She took it, seating herself using her best manners. He took the seat at the head of the table, directly to her left, and began uncovering the soup tureen.

“Hope you don’t mind, but I prefer not to have staff at table,” he said, unceremoniously serving her a ladle full of what looked like vegetable soup. “Can’t get away with it back home, of course, but here I’m the king of the manor.”

The soup smelled wonderful, nothing like the lentil soup she ate twice a week with her landlady. 

“Is your mother quite strict?” she asked, imagining the matriarch of his family in her grand house. But then: was she quite certain he was unmarried?  What if he had a wife this whole time, and she’d been fretting for nothing? After all, many gentlemen of his class hadn’t adopted the middle class tradition of wedding rings.

But he interrupted her anxiety. “My mother passed away these five years now. It’s my tyrannical butler who would never allow it. And even if he did, I expect the house keeper would lead the scullery maids in a revolt.”

So he was unmarried. An odd, trepidatious feeling thudded in her chest. “Is that why you prefer to live in the city?” 

She took a delicate sip of the soup. It was as good as it smelled. 

With little ceremony, he reached for the bread and ripped her off a piece. It was so indelicate that she was tempted to giggle, but resisted. He seemed utterly unconscious of himself, ripping and tearing with no mind for what anyone else thought. He handed her a chunk of bread the size of her forearm and she took it, flummoxed as to what she was meant to do with it. She could hardly shove it in her mouth at that size, and the idea of ripping it herself felt ludicrous. 

“I keep to the city for business reasons, principally,” he said. “I’ve worked like an ox these past years.”

“Seems to have served you well,” she said, noticing that all his candlesticks were finely milled and so clean burning that they gave off no smoke, just light. He must have an army of servants in this house to prepare all this, but she hadn’t seen them.

She smiled as he dipped the bread into the soup. It was charming, the way he took obvious pleasure in the food. He glanced over at her. “Eat.”

She took an obedient spoonful of soup. “Do you entertain much?” 

He scoffed, leaning back in his chair. “Only when forced.”

“Don’t you have social obligations?”

“I believe many people have expectations of me,” he conceded. “But the point of all this money is the privilege of not giving a damn.”

“My godfather says you could stop working so much if you so chose,” she said.

He gave her a sharp look. “And do you agree with him?”

A loaded question. She counted to three before answering, thinking of the bear in the hallway, the way he wrenched the bread apart, and the reeds blowing in the wind at Kenobi Lawns. 

“I think,” she said coolly, “That you’ll do exactly as you please, Mr. Solo.”

He gave her an approving nod. “Clever mouse. Here, you’ll have some meat.” 

He served her a helping of roasted meat with a side of new potatoes and baked carrots, plating the food carefully before handing it to her. She pushed the soup aside and carefully took a bite. He watched her like a hawk as she chewed, savored, swallowed. 

“Do you like it?” he asked, with such seriousness that for a moment she wondered if he’d cooked it himself.

“It’s delicious.”

“Good,” he said, and though he did not smile, she could tell that he was practically saturated with satisfaction. “To your earlier point, I have in fact recently been considering the benefits of a more balanced life. Retreating to the country. For my health, you know.”

She couldn’t imagine a man like him ever taking sick. He seemed so vigorous, so alive. 

“You could take up a sport,” she suggested, privately imagining him dressed for boxing or calisthenics. It wasn’t an unappealing thought. 

“Or a wife,” he said casually, pouring red wine from a silver pitcher into a crystal glass. 

She fought not to choke. “Sir?” 

He gave her a direct stare. “What do you think? Would any member of your sex have me?” 

This was absolutely not appropriate conduct. She was on dangerous ground. 

“You’d have to ask one of them,” she said icily, hoping her hauteur deterred any further such questions. 

He only gave her a rueful smile and held his glass up to her, engaging her in a toast she could not share with a glass she did not have. 

“Little mouse, right you are.” 

Ben noted with dry amusement that the minute dinner was over, she was excusing herself. He made a mental note to tell cook to serve more courses tomorrow. 

With her coat on and her valise clutched firmly in one gloved hand, she held out the other for him to shake. She looked so small like that, and as upright as a new pencil. 

“Good evening, Mr. Solo, thank you again for your help today.”

He reached out and took her proffered hand, and although she wore gloves, touching her felt delicious. He knew that she offered him the handshake as a declaration of equality, an empowered announcement of her sense of self, her composure and self belief. But underneath the silk, he could feel muscle and sinew. He wondered what else was. When she pulled her hand back and turned to go, his hand hung there in the air for a moment, as if reaching out for her.

She slipped out the door and into the waiting carriage, and Ben stood at the door and watched her go. As the carriage swept into the dark evening, the gas lamps on the street sending dancing shadows against the ground, he felt another surge of emotion in his chest.

Frustrated and irritable, he shut the door. Without entirely meaning to, walked up the stairs to the third floor library. There were the books she’d been reading, arranged in a neat stack with the chair pushed in. The new lamp he’d had sent up was unlit, and the fire had been turned down for the night. Nothing lingered except the faint smell of her powder and a loose hair pin resting delicately on the edge of the desk.

His hands clenched, gripped by a familiar feeling: certainty. 

He often had this feeling about business dealings, but it was new for it to be directed towards a person. Towards a woman. It was like watching a compass needle that had been spinning in aimless circles suddenly find its magnetic pole and snap to attention, and one knew that its direction signified something. Rey Niima felt like that; like certainty. 

Pity she seemed to trust him about as far as she could throw him. 

Well. He had time. He had all the time in the world. 

He left the library. Then, he called for Hux.

Chapter Text

The next day, she arrived on his front steps fully equipped with a nice dress, her best hat, and a resolution to be as efficient as possible to make up for yesterday. She’d spent most of the day in reverent awe of the scale of the place, marveling at the breadth of information he had at his fingertips at all times. It was marvelous, but she'd been terribly unprofessional. 

She didn't have time for marvelous. After all, she'd come there to study, not to moon around in books about maps and flowers. She'd barely even opened a book about steam engines, the very thing she'd come here to investigate.

Padding up the steps to the front door of his home, she appreciated again the size of it. It took up nearly an entire city block, and she knew now that the walls were thick and solid. Giving herself a quick glance over to make sure that she was at least not more disheveled than usual, she knocked on the door. 

It opened promptly, revealing the trim figure of Armitage Hux. 

“Miss Niima,” he said briskly. “Welcome back.”

She gave him a polite nod, and said, “Thank you, Mr. Hux.”

“No theatrics today, Miss Niima?”

She gripped her valise tightly as she crossed the threshold. “I assure you, my relationship to gravity has been thoroughly re-established. I’ll see myself up, please don’t trouble yourself.”

Hux's gaze lingered on her face. He reminded her of a professor inspecting a specimen for some quality or another. But it only lasted a moment, and by the time he waved her towards the staircase, she forgot all about him. She had to hold herself back from running up the steps to the library on the third floor, her heart racing as if she might arrive on the landing and find the doors gone, the books gone, and her dreams dashed. 

But of course, it was right there waiting for her, the heavy door swinging open on well-oiled hinges to reveal the reading table with all her books stacked neatly where she’d left them. There was a low fire burning in the grate, giving off just the right amount of heat for the brisk fall morning. 

“Hello, books,” she said, pulling out her chair and sitting down again. She opened her notebook, pulled out her pen, and flipped to where she’d left yesterday. Six neatly transcribed pages… of information about butterflies.

Wincing, she gave herself a firm scold. Her godfather needed her help, she had no time to waste.

Thus resolved, she took all the frivolous books on the table and pushed them to one side of the continent-sized desk. In the next ten minutes, she browsed the engineering section of the library, pulling out titles like, “Locomotion and the Modern Steam Engine,” “The Useful Diversions of Steam for the Advancement of Man,” and, “A Complete Treatise on the Use of Iron for Purposes of Industry.” 

That done, she sat down and began to read. 

Or rather, she tried to read, but it was so very boring. For thirty minutes, she made a truly valiant attempt, opening the books, aligning them at perfect right angles to the side of the desk, scanning the tables of contents with a very studious expression on her face. 

The words swam in front of her, dense and important, and although she could perfectly understand the lines, her mind was pulling away from the task in its longing to open the particularly intriguing volume she'd just noticed on the charming little armchair by the fireplace. Something struck her as odd about the armchair, and she puzzled over it for a moment before she realized what it was that was bothering her.

It hadn't been there yesterday.

She frowned, confused, and then a knock on the door made her nearly jump out of her chair.

She expected to see Mr. Solo or Mr. Hux walk in, but nobody did. The knocker waited. Feeling a bit foolish, somehow, she said, "Do...come in?"

The door opened. It was a smiling maid with a tray.“Mr. Solo says you need a rest.”

Rey watched in surprise as she bustled into the room, setting down a gilt tray laden with tea, cakes, and a spray of daisies on a little cream table next to the little cream armchair.

“I’ve barely been here an hour,” she pointed out. 

The maid looked up at Rey, her expression friendly but resolute. "Academics are all fine and well, but you mustn't overtire yourself, Miss Niima.”

A little taken aback that she knew her name, Rey got to her feet and walked nervously over to the chair. “I suppose some tea won’t hurt.”

“Quite right, miss,” she said, deftly pouring tea leaves and hot water into the pot. The smell of it wafted into the air. Rey sat down on the little chair and asked, “Is this–” 

“Earl gray with lavender. Very popular with the young ladies these days, I believe," the maid said airily. Her task complete, she walked to the door, calling brightly, “Only ring for me if you have a need, miss.”

However, as the day progressed, Rey never got the chance to ring for anyone, because she never had the opportunity to want anything. 

It was like magic: she would work an hour or so, feel her energy stalling, and suddenly a light-footed maid or a handsome footman would arrive with a fresh pot of tea, or lemon cakes, or a lovely cashmere shawl when the room cooled, and she would go and sit in the cream chair next to a fire that was never allowed to bank low and smoky. 

She felt like quite a fine young lady for the day, with her borrowed shawl wrapped around her shoulders and a book in her lap. If only she had a little cat in her lap, the picture would be complete. 

Many nights as a young, fervent girl she had imagined that her godfather might come to her school and sweep her into his arms, declaring that he had decided he would adopt her and bring her to live with him at Kenobi Lawns. In that dream, she spent her days with a tutor and her very own horse, and a kind stableboy who slipped her an apple or a sugar cube extra to feed the horses, and she didn’t have to go back to the city with its grime and mud– 

She stopped herself.

She was letting a few pots of tea and a pretty scrap of fabric lead her into a ridiculous, irresponsible fancy. Wanting what one couldn’t have was an exercise in foolishness, and Rey Niima was not a fool.

They were being kind to her because Mr. Solo had a very attentive housekeeper who understood that the best way to keep the gentleman of the house in a good temper was to ply the lunatic girl in the library with enough sweets that she'd forget to make a nuisance of herself.

In a week or two, this would be over, and she would go back to her life. Better not to get used to it. She thought of Jane Eyre, and got out of the chair. She sat firmly back down at the desk and shrugged the shawl off her shoulders. It pooled in her lap, silky and warm, like a delicious secret. 

The sound of the door opening caught her attention, and she looked up just in time to see Mr. Solo entering, dressed in wool trousers and a white shirt, his jacket unbuttoned on his shoulders.

She was surprised to see him, though she wasn’t sure why. It was his house, after all. He was likely home from work.

“Mr. Solo,” she said, glad she had removed the shawl before he came in. The thought of him seeing her luxuriating in borrowed finery made her cheeks heat.

Mr. Solo took a few steps into the room, his eyes scanning from left in that roving way he'd done yesterday. He was difficult to read; he seemed composed and indifferent, and yet something in the set of his jaw was expectant. 

Finally, turning those piercing eyes on her, he said, “And how are you getting on, mouse?”

That odd nickname again. She’d have to speak to him about it.

“Very well, thank you Mr. Solo.”

He walked to the window, surveying the street beyond. In profile, he looked vaguely roman, like the busts she’d seen at the natural history museum. 

“Have you found everything to your liking?”

She was embarrassed just how much she had liked everything.

"I found many useful volumes."

“Good,” he said. He didn’t say anything else, only stood there looking out the window, apparently deep in thought. Unsure what the appropriate thing to say was, Rey cleared her throat.

“May I be useful to you in some way, sir?”

At this, he turned and looked at her. His expression, though vaguely sarcastic, was not unkind. “Useful? What did you have in mind?”

“I could…” she cast her mind about, trying to come up with something that didn’t sound faintly ludicrous. What could she do for a man like him that he didn’t already have? He probably had multiple secretaries, a housekeeper, and a butler. He certainly had no need of a half-trained stenographer.

He stood there, expectant, one hand in his pocket, the other reaching up to rub his jaw as if stifling a smirk. 

Finally, she said, “I could dust?”

His expression didn't change. “Is that what they teach you at Barnard? Housekeeping?”

Embarrassed and a little indignant, she said, “No, I’m studying Latin. And stenography.”

He frowned. “Stenography?”

Sensing the note of disapproval in his voice, she said, “An independent woman must have a trade, sir.”

His frown deepened. “What does your godfather say about that?”

He had sent her a fine leather valise with a kind note inside it, encouraging her to pursue her studies. Somehow, she didn't want to tell Mr. Solo about that.

“Typing is a perfectly respectable profession,” she said evasively. 

His frown deepened even further. “He doesn't look after you properly."

She felt a flare of indignation. Her godfather did look after her.

All her needs were met, and she lived in solid, respectable comfort in a well-regarded boarding house. But she could never explain to Mr. Solo the sword of Damocles hanging over her head; the knowledge that her godfather’s care for her would only last until his death.

She would have to make her own way in the world, and she would need real, mechanical skills to sustain her. Though she dreamt of being taken into her godfather’s estate as a secretary or an assistant, she wasn’t a fool. Her godfather had made her no such promises, and she had to think of her future.

“My resources are adequate to my needs,” was all she said.

Mr. Solo looked like he might like to discuss the point further, but seemed to decide against it. Instead, he walked towards her, coming to lean against the side of her desk.

His voice was soft and coaxing, like he was speaking to a frightened animal. “And how are you finding my home, Miss Niima? Do you find it ... adequate?”

“Your home is lovely, and your staff are quite attentive, sir.” 

"Have you been happy, here with me?” 

That stopped her dead in her tracks, and she had to look away from him. He was close enough that she could see every fiber of his jacket, the fine hairs on his forearm where the cuff had rolled up, the faint ghost of a chalk mark on his sleeve.

It bothered her, that chalk mark. It didn't belong there.

She reached out and brushed the powder away. It was the work of a moment, she barely even touched the fabric, but somehow even that brief contact felt like too much. She felt that she would like to curl up in this moment, in the glow of his favor.

“I have been happy here, sir. Thank you.” 

She looked up to met his gaze.

He was changed. His whole body was tense with restraint, but his eyes held nothing but hunger.

The intensity of his expression sent something trilling with alarm all down her spine, and she leaned back, trying to get away from it and yet unable to look away from him. The silence between them stretched on and on as he looked and looked and looked at her.

He placed a hand on the spot where her fingers had touched his sleeve.

The clock chimed.

"Put your shawl back on," he murmured. "I won’t have you catch cold.” 

Ben was gratified to say that she was becoming almost comfortable around him. 

Almost. 

She arrived every morning smiling, and she left in the evening with her valise full of books. They ate together. Spoke of pleasant things. He waited. Watched.

And he tested her. One morning, he removed the clock from the library. A foolish hope. When he saw her in the evening, she had her pocket watch out on the table. Another day, he left his office door wide open, wondering if she would greet him when she arrived. She didn't. He had the desk chair in the library swapped for a padded one, hoping she might fall doze off in it.

Days passed like this. She came, and then she left. His for a few hours, and then not his. She eluded him, and every hour that passed, he became more and more irritable about it.

Why should she go back to that narrow room in that seedy corner of the city? Why should she refuse his offers of a better coat, new boots, all because she insisted she could never be seen wearing something so far out of her station?

Nobody refused him anything, so it rankled that the only person to whom he would like to be generous had declined. It was absurd. He was a wealthy man who had everything he could want. If he wanted to keep a little mouse comfortable in satin and cashmere, what business did society have to stop him?

It was the twentieth century, for god's sake; he should be allowed to give Rey Niima better socks.

So it went. Mornings. Books. Sparkling conversation over dinners that he dragged as long as possible. Interminable soups. Slabs of meat the size of her head, which she looked at, daunted, until she finally asked him to help her cut it.

He even managed to get her to stay through seven courses before she accused him of trying to give her gout. But if she thought the dinner was about food and conversation, she was wrong. He drew her out over those dinners, doing his best to learn everything he could.

She was idealistic. Poetic, even. 

“I only think that if we could but tap the depths of the ocean and ascend to the heights of the heavens, we could find wonders untold even by today’s most forward-thinking scientists.” 

She was practical.

“I’ve never seen the point in arguing semantics with a literalist. It will only produce a headache and a few pages of pointless textual analysis.”

She was tired. 

“I’ve got to be up early tomorrow, the laundry is being sent out and I can’t miss it. Oh, and I’ve got sixteen pages of Latin to translate. I wonder where I left that book…” 

She had infinite questions, and he couldn't fathom why on earth she was so dead set on working for her godfather.

"Do you even want to be a secretary?" he asked her, pouring her a little brandy into a glass of soda water for her.

As usual, she took one sip, wrinkled her nose, and pushed it away. "Well, it's honest work, isn't it?'

He took her discarded drink, palming the glass where her fingers had been. "Why work in the first place?"

She wasn't yet comfortable around him enough to laugh at him, but she did take a rather pointed bite of her quail, pausing to think before she replied. He liked that about her. She was careful. "I've taken the position that it's important to have food and a place to sleep at night."

Pert. Proper. Infuriating.

He drank her in.

Coaxed her, kept the biscuits she liked, kept the pens she liked, ordered more books, dropped in unannounced, watched her frowning in work, smiling in leisure, had the lanterns lit at all hours of the day, left the door open on to the west sitting room with its feminine wallpaper and its inviting piano, hoped she would wander in there, sit, stay.

But of course, to learn the rest of it, he had to ask Hux.

“A Swiss national by birth, she was raised entirely by her parents’ friends in America when her parents died at age five," Hux said, rattling off the facts with the passion of a socialite forced to make conversation with her social inferiors. "She's on partial course credit at Barnard, taking classes with an eye towards a career as a typist and stenographer. I believe she also translates ... latin."

“Anything more interesting than that?” Ben snapped.

Hux sighed. “She is tolerable at the piano, atrocious at tennis, and has an estimated income of five hundred dollars per annum, delivered quarterly by wire to a bank on 5th Avenue. Most of it goes to pay for her room and board at a ladies’ pension fourteen blocks from here."

"Kenobi pays her tuition?”

"Obviously."

"What about Kenobi? Doesn't he mind his goddaughter running around Manhattan?"

Hux flipped through his note book with the end of his pen, as if he didn't even want to touch the paper. “Two servants we asked indicated that the man is ‘very fond’ of the girl, but another had not heard of her. It seems she visits him at his estate at least twice a year, and always at Christmas.”

Ben turned to look out the window.

His office was at the very back of the house. It was probably intended for a butler's office, but Ben had commandeered it it because it was strategically ideal. It was on the first floor and close enough to the front door to hear who came and went, but far enough away that he didn't have to speak to anyone he didn't want to. At any moment, he could sweep out the back door onto the stone terrace between his house and the mews where his horses lived.

It was a bustling, industrious courtyard. He tried to picture Rey in a fray of people, or huddled over a desk working as a secretary for a factory manager in a stifling, poorly-ventilated office.

He thought of her at Kenobi Lawns. The way her face went soft when she talked about the woodland and her eyes filled with a fond, distant look in her eyes.

"Kenobi Lawns," Ben muttered.

He heard Hux shift in his chair. Pointedly, his secretary said, "Oh, Kenobi Lawns? The property we are trying to build a railway across?"

“We can work something out," Ben said absently, turning back around, "If she’s attached to it.”

Hux was staring at him. Ben ignored it. “Has she any other attachments?”

“Nothing of interest.”

Ben found it difficult to believe how little there was to know about this creature who’d arrived fully formed and perfect on his doorstep. Just a few lines on a church registry, a modest income, and an odd mix of college courses. How simple she seemed on paper, and yet in person, how complex, optimistic, frightened. 

For a man like him, a man about whom much had been written, her very insignificance felt almost like an intentional disguise.

She knew how to conduct herself in the world of a man like her godfather, but she was not of it herself. She was like the scent of a candle in the moments just after it had been blown out.

"What about that boarding house where she lives," Ben prompted.

Hux shrugged. "It's perfectly respectable. A bit drab, and hopelessly middle class, but respectable. The neighborhood is safe enough."

Safe enough. He scowled.

Sensing the shift in his mood, Hux sat up a bit straighter. “Ah, there is something. It appears she has met your colleague, Mr. Dameron, on several occasions.”

“Dameron?”

“A benefactor of her college, I believe. He’s an enthusiast of women’s education.”

"Is he more interested in the women, or in the education?" Ben muttered darkly.

Hux arched a brow. "Unless you consider visiting the college on a quarterly basis to speak to the bursar about his ledgers, you've nothing to worry about."

Ben ignored that, too. “So there’s really nothing else you can tell me?”

It wasn’t often that Hux didn’t know exactly what Ben meant, or why he was asking it. But his voice betrayed his confusion and unease when he said, “Nothing else… in what sense, sir?”

Ben only smiled.

Nothing else in the way. 

In the foyer of her boarding house, Rey waved goodbye to her landlady as she tied the strands of her sensible straw hat under her chin, promising the older woman that she’d be home from her latin consortium later that evening. As she had done the past week, her landlady accepted the lie with a placid smile and a wave of her arthritic hand. “Heaven keep you, child,” the older woman said, and Rey promised that she would try her best to be kept, and they both laughed. 

Emerging onto the front steps, Rey inhaled a lungful of what counted for fresh air in the city. The sun was out, illuminating the faint gray haze in the air leftover from the unseasonably cold evening they had passed.

As usual, the Solo carriage was parked not far away, the driver dressed in discreet, dark livery. It looked faintly old fashioned in this setting, set against the trolleys and carts that normally got her around the city. But she supposed the ludicrous expense of keeping a carriage was nothing to a man like Mr. Solo. A penny sweet at a carnival, or tin thimble off a tinker's cart. 

The driver, catching sight of her, gave her a friendly wave and began to jump down from his seat to help her up. Just then, however, she heard her name called from behind her. Her landlady emerged on the stoop, Rey’s valise clutched in her hand.

“Dear,” she called. “Your bag! Don't forget it!”

Rey turned back, grateful her landlady had come out before Rey got into the conspicuous carriage. 

Thanking her landlady and turning to go, Rey was dismayed to realize that the kindly woman intended to stay on the stoop and watch Rey as she headed off for her class. Which was a problem, of course, because she wasn’t going to class, she was about to get into the large, luxurious carriage that would immediately expose her lie.

Girls like Rey did not take a carriage. People didn't do that. And if her landlady knew Rey had lied, she might doubt Rey's character, might think she was some man's...her cheeks burned. 

Steeling herself, Rey walked right past the carriage driver with its soft seats and beckoning pillows. The driver looked confused by the dismissive hand wave she gave him. He looked like he might be about to protest, so Rey quickly ducked down an alley and ran, hoping in the name of hope that the man wouldn’t chase after her and give her landlady a heart attack. 

She only stopped running when she had cleared the alley and emerged two streets over, safe in the knowledge that the driver couldn't run on foot after her and leave the horses unattended. Congratulating herself that she had successfully avoided her landlady finding out that she had lied, and that she had avoided Mr. Solo’s driver giving away their connection. The fine weather seemed to be congratulating her, too, and she decided to walk to Mr. Solo's home. No doubt the driver, relieved of his charge, would go straight back himself, and she could apologize to him when she got there.

After all, it was a nice day, and she could use the exercise, even if it would take longer than catching the trolley. Thus resolved, she walked down the residential streets populated with other middle class apartments, boarding houses, and corner markets, enjoying the sights and sounds of new foods, new books, new languages. When she went to Kenobi Lawns, she often took long, rambling walks by herself, and although in the city she saw far fewer deer, it was just as pleasant to stride along on her own two feet, enjoying the world around her.

Rey enjoyed her walk so much that she didn't hear the voice calling her name at first. When she finally realized that the noise was not, as she’d thought, a cajoling Italian man calling for his child, but in fact the sound of her own name, she turned abruptly around to find Mr. Dameron walking up to her, dressed in a trim and unexpectedly chartreuse suit.

“Good god, girl, are you still as absent minded as ever?” he said, catching up to giving her his hand to shake. "I was just stopping for a pierogi, what a pleasure to run into you."

“How lovely to see you, sir,” she said. "Though I'm afraid I'm late and can't afford to stop."

He grinned, offering her his arm, which she took. “We’re going the same direction, we can walk together. Headed to class?” 

He said this with a note of confusion in his voice, as they both knew quite well her school was in a different direction.

Mr. Dameron was a man she liked instinctively; vigorous and straightforward, they had often been seated next to each other at college events and lectures. She found him dashing, direct, and engaging, and she supposed they were about as well acquainted as two single people of different genders could acceptably be. 

She lied to his face anyway. 

“Ah, I’ve taken up a bit of secretarial work,” she said. It was a little troubling, how easy the lie came. But it wasn’t as if she could tell him the truth: I’ve been borrowing a library from a man my godfather hates in order to attempt to convince my godfather to take me into business with him so I won’t face a life of poverty. 

Mr. Dameron smiled. “Splendid, I hope your employer pays you well.”

Of course it was terribly impolite for him to speak to her about money, but she couldn't muster the energy to be outraged as she thought about the mug of tea that would no doubt be waiting for her at her reading desk and the creme fraiche with strawberries he’d promised for dinner. 

“Oh, quite adequately,” she said, blushing for no reason she could identify. 

They chatted amiably for a few blocks about his business, her studies, and the like. Mr. Dameron was always so easy to talk to, and their pace was slow as they traded quips back and forth, discussing shared acquaintances and the doings of the dottering vice-provost whose dinner parties always lasted interminably long.

By the time they arrived at the Solo townhouse, she realized he had walked her all the way to her destination, and she was even more late than she'd thought. 

“You are terribly kind, but I'm afraid this is my stop,” she said, gesturing up at the house.

Mr. Dameron’s expression went blank. “Here? You work for Solo?”

Rey cursed her own stupidity; of course Mr. Dameron would know Mr. Solo. They probably attended the same club, went to the same parties.

“Well, no,” she blustered, extricating her arm from his. “It’s just nearby. Not here, of course.”

Mr. Dameron gave her a sidelong look, but didn't question her further. “Of course, Miss Niima.” 

She laughed insincerely, “Well, thank you, I’ll be going now.”

And for the second time in one morning, Rey took off in the wrong direction with the intent to conceal her connection to Benjamin Solo.

She walked past the house and around the corner, intending to sneak in through the servants' door in the back. By the time she reached the back of the house and opened gate that led into the back terrace of the house, her feet ached and all her curls had all drooped from the exertion. 

She felt faintly furtive, which was absurd. Mr. Solo was at work, and he'd probably not care a fig if she showed up late, or not at all. So long as she attended dinner, which seemed to be something of an idée fixe for him.

At this time of day, she expected to find the courtyard behind the house empty but for a stable boy. The deliveries were all made in the early morning, and Mr. Solo should have been long gone from the house on business.

What she found was chaos. 

The driver of the carriage was standing in front of the garage, speaking animatedly to Hux, who was pinching the bridge of his nose. Another servant was gearing up a bicycle, and a third appeared to have just returned from a bicycle ride, his color high and his cheeks pink. 

And there was Mr. Solo himself, his hair mussed, his eyes narrowed into steel gray slits, scowling thunderously. He looked like a Greek cameo, ready to launch a thunderbolt at someone for breathing the wrong way. It was very like how looked on the first day she'd met him, all looming strength.

“You gave you one job,” Mr. Solo was saying, his voice harsh and ice cold. He looked like a steam engine incarnate, burning and unyielding. “Get the girl in the carriage, bring the girl to me.” 

“But sir, I couldn’t stop her, she was something quick –”

“You’ve got six inches on the chit and two horses besides. I don’t care if she was part horse, you shouldn’t have let her go off alone."

Was he really so concerned with her whereabouts that a mere hour’s delay was enough for all this?

Maybe he really was as fearsome as people said, as demanding. Uneasily, she thought of the deal they had made. How specific he had been in the times he expected her there.

A devil in the bargain.

Turning to Hux, Mr. Solo growled, “What’s the point of having met her if I lose her after only a few days?”

Coolly, Hux said, “She’s survived two decades in this city without you, I have every confidence that she can go sixty minutes unescorted, sir.”  

“Unacceptable,” he snapped, turning back to the driver as if to pick up his tirade where he’d left off. 

Knowing she had to save the poor man, Rey cleared her throat and took a step forward. “Um, sir, I’m terribly sorry, I seem to have troubled you--” 

Mr. Solo's eyes snapped to hers with such ferocity that her words dried up. He was ten feet away from her, but his gaze was so intense that it felt like he was much closer. The courtyard fell absolutely silent. Even the horses had frozen. 

And then he stormed over to her, all that intensity like a train barreling down a track. He flicked his hand, sending the gawking servants scattering, and then they were alone, and he was standing in front of her looking terribly serious.

"You broke out agreement," he said, his voice quite low.

“I’m terribly sorry,” she repeated, “My landlady came out, and I couldn’t get in the carriage."

The words felt hideously inadequate in light of the enormous upset her decision seemed to have caused. He gave her a look that informed her he required more information.

"Well, she would know I wasn’t going to my class if I got into such a fine carriage. She would think...”

Rey trailed off, unwilling to voice the end of it.

"She would think you were a rich man's mistress?"

“I'm sorry. But I must protect my reputation.”

When he spoke, his voice was so quiet she almost couldn't hear it, yet so clear she could never have looked away.

"You and I did come to an arrangement, Miss Niima," he said.

Rey stiffened. "Yes. An academic one."

"Remind me of the terms. I explained them to you in my letter, and we finalized the agreement that first day we met."

"I remember you changed the terms the first day we met," she said.

"But you agreed," he said, relentless. Taking a step even closer. "You agreed to arrive at my house at 11 am, to read my books and dine at my table, and at the end of the night you were to be driven back to that little boarding house in my carriage, and were were to stay there until I could fetch you in the morning."

"I never agreed to stay at the boarding house every moment I'm not with you," she pointed out. "And you offered to send the carriage, you never said it was a requirement that I ride in it."

"It was implied," he snapped.

His eyes flicked to her mouth. Just for only a moment. Enough that she felt something fizz and hiss inside her like water scattered on a hot pan. He hadn't moved, but she suddenly realized how close he was standing. Too close for good manners. Too close for good sense.

She was in trouble.

"I beg your forgiveness," she said unsteadily. "I didn't think a man with a railroad to build would notice the absence of a grubby, middle class interloper."

Right away, she knew this was the wrong thing to say. His frown was back and it thunderous, ancient.

"There is nothing about you that I do not notice. Be as late as you want. Be as lost as you like. Only do not try to escape the boundaries of my protection again."

He looked so serious. So...frightening. He was waiting for her to respond. He expected her to. And part of her knew she should argue, point out that he was overreacting, that he was changing the terms.

And yet.

He had made a place for her in his life, carved it out, fought for it. He wanted more. So much more that he was changing the terms and hoping she wouldn't notice. And when she was not in that place? He had been utterly upended. She could almost feel it radiating off him, his need to become sure of her.

He was still waiting for her to say something.

"I'm only here for five more days," she whispered. One last feeble attempt to get him to realize that he didn't need to care. That she was perfectly fine. That he shouldn't get attached.

"And I will hold you to every second of it," he said quietly. As if it was quite simple.

For perhaps the first time in her life, Rey knew what it felt like to be someone's top priority.

Slowly, she nodded. Once. Ben Solo's hand clenched at his side. As if he had caught something within it and meant to keep it.