Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Benjamin Solo liked to think he was a man who could handle anything. Corporate takeovers, hostile shareholders, bored supermodels—he'd faced them all with that same bored smirk, the one that drove the paparazzi wild. But even he hadn't counted on being stuck—literally stuck—in the middle of nowhere, on a road that looked like it hadn't seen pavement since the Civil War.

His car—a polished black Mercedes AMG—sat silent and dejected, its hood popped open like a corpse at a funeral. He'd killed it. Not intentionally, of course—he wasn't that reckless—but he'd driven too hard, too fast, over roads that were more pothole than asphalt. A mix of anger, panic, and something like desperation had driven him to get as far away from his grandfather as possible, but he'd taken the car with him like a spoiled child clutching a favorite toy.

Now it was dead.

Ben raked a hand through his hair, cursing under his breath as he glared at the engine. Of course, his fancy car didn't just break down like a normal car; it had to suffer some catastrophic electrical failure that required a specialist—and the nearest specialist, according to the spotty cell reception, was two hours away.

He kicked the dirt. This was all Anakin's fault.

His grandfather had come storming into his office that morning with all the subtlety of a hostile takeover. One minute Ben was going over merger proposals, the next he was being informed—like a fucking corporate memo—that he was to marry Phasma.

"Marry her," Anakin had said, as if it was as simple as signing a contract.

Ben had nearly laughed in his face. Phasma—the on-again, off-again girlfriend from his college days. Tall, blonde, cut-glass cheekbones, a mouth that could cut steel—and absolutely no chemistry between them beyond a few forgettable hook-ups and a polite arrangement at charity galas.

Sex with Phasma had been... fine. Clinical, even. Ben had felt more passion over a cup of coffee than he'd ever felt in her bed. But that didn't matter to Anakin. Phasma came from money—old, powerful money—and Anakin only saw her as a merger opportunity, an asset to consolidate their holdings.

Ben had tried to argue. He'd tried to explain that he didn't want Phasma, didn't love her, didn't even really like her that much. But Anakin had waved him off like he was a spoiled child complaining about chores.

"You'll do what's best for the family," he'd said. "You'll marry her, and that's the end of it."

Ben had lost count of how many times Anakin had said that line over the years—you'll do what's best for the family. Translation: you'll do what's best for me.

So Ben had done the only thing he could think of—he'd gotten in his car and driven. And driven. And driven. Past the suburbs, past the ranches, past the endless stretches of nothing, until the sun was setting and the sky had turned that bruised purple color that meant he was really, truly in the middle of nowhere.

And now here he was, standing in the dirt, a thousand miles from anywhere, his Mercedes looking like it had been rolled off the assembly line just to disappoint him.

His phone was on its last bar, the heat was oppressive, and his perfectly tailored shirt was clinging to his back like a second skin.

Perfect. Just perfect.

He scowled at the car again, as if it might magically fix itself out of fear. It didn't.

Ben Solo, heir to the Solo fortune, a man who could talk circles around billionaires and politicians, was officially stuck in the middle of nowhere, alone.

And—he realized as he checked the time—he was going to be late to dinner with Phasma and his grandfather tomorrow night. The one where they'd finalize "the details." Like it was a merger contract. Like he didn't even get a say.

He'd been many things in his life—arrogant, reckless, a disappointment—but he'd never felt as trapped as he did right now, staring at the dead car, the sun beating down on him like a punishment.

He kicked the tire again and muttered under his breath.

"Fuck."

⸻

Rey kicked her no-good, piece-of-crap washing machine, the thud echoing through the cramped trailer like a gunshot. It was, by her best guess, a fourth-hand machine—maybe fifth—and it hated her as much as she hated it. The thing rattled and shook like it was trying to die, and Rey had to fight the urge to put it out of its misery herself.

She leaned her forehead against the wall, eyes squeezed shut. She'd been living alone for a year now—finally. After bouncing from foster home to foster home like a damn ping pong ball, the state had finally let her go. Happy birthday, Rey. Good luck out there.

She'd taken that freedom and run with it. Not far, mind you—a trailer on the edge of nowhere was about as far as she could afford—but at least it was hers. A place with a door she could close and not worry about someone barging in, yelling at her for being too loud, too quiet, too much of everything.

Her hand trembled as she smoothed a loose thread on her old sundress. She'd been through a lot of shit, more than she cared to think about. Memories she'd shoved into a box marked DO NOT OPEN because if she let them out, she'd never get them back in.

She shook her head. "Stop it, Rey," she whispered. "You're... you're good now."

Yeah, tell that to your bank account, with the minus sign and the overdraft fees hanging over her like a guillotine. Bills stacked up on the table—electricity, water, rent. She'd been stretching every dollar from her shifts at the diner and the odd jobs fixing cars that barely ran. Finn—the pastor's boy—had helped a few times, his cheeks bright pink whenever he did. She knew he liked her, and she felt bad about taking his help, but she was too proud to refuse him outright. Rose too—though she didn't work, her mama, Mrs. Tico, had brought over leftovers more than once, saying she'd made too much.

Nice, small gestures that Rey swore she'd remember forever.

She sighed, the sound bitter on her tongue, and rubbed her tired eyes. Maybe tomorrow she'd get lucky. Maybe—

Her head snapped up at the sound of an engine failing down the road—a sputter and a cough that was more mechanical death rattle than anything. Curiosity—mixed with a healthy dose of cynicism—pulled her to the window.

That's when she saw him.

A man, tall and broad-shouldered, wearing clothes that practically screamed money—even from this distance—and looking like he'd stepped out of a GQ ad, was standing beside the sleekest, blackest, most expensive-looking Mercedes she'd ever laid eyes on. He was kicking the tire like a petulant child, his face contorted with frustration and—if she wasn't mistaken—panic.

Her heart skipped.

A playboy. A city slicker. A rich kid with more money than sense, stuck out here in the middle of nowhere.

A smirk tugged at the corner of her lips. Maybe luck was on her side after all.

"Thank you, St. Jude," she muttered, throwing up a quick prayer to any saint that might be listening. She remembered them from Sunday school, though half the time she couldn't tell one from the other. "And St. Anthony... and St. Whoever Helps with Bills..."

She grabbed her jacket and headed out the door, her heart pounding, her mind already calculating how much she might get out of him for a jumpstart—or a tow. Hell, she'd settle for gas money if it came to that.

She wasn't a gold digger—she hated the thought—but desperate times, as they said.

And if he thought she was going to be some sweet country girl with big eyes and no brains—well, he was about to learn the hard way.

Rey walked slowly, not like a predator but something close. She pulled together what little sweet Southern charm she had left, though it wouldn't have bought her a drop of oil under that damn trailer of hers.

He was tall—broad-shouldered, tense—and she caught him mid-curse, phone raised uselessly in the air as if he could will a signal into existence. City boy, she thought, rolling her eyes. Welcome to nowhere.

She stopped a few feet away, arms folded, and called out just loud enough to get his attention. "Need a hand there, mister?"

His head snapped up, dark eyes narrowing as he sized her up. She could almost see the words forming on his lips—no thanks, sweetheart.

"I can help," she added evenly, no sugarcoating it. Her voice was firm, no-nonsense. She'd fixed cars before—hell, it was the only thing that'd kept her fed as a teen, even after the shop she'd worked at had closed down last year.

He nearly scoffed, his expression sour. "Thanks, but no thanks," he muttered, "sweetheart. I'll wait for AAA."

She barked a dry laugh, hand on her hip. "You'd have better luck waiting for a spaceship to land out here," she said. "Cell service is shot for at least twenty miles. If you're lucky."

He glared, jaw tight, but she saw the flicker of resignation in his eyes. Desperate.

"Fine," he ground out. "How much?"

She smiled—no teeth, just that small, satisfied smile that said I know I've got you. She named a number—way higher than she'd have charged back at the shop, but fair game for a rich boy stranded on her road.

He knew it, too; his eyes darkened with annoyance but also something like acceptance. "Fine," he muttered again, reaching for his wallet.

Rey folded her arms, feeling the smallest flicker of triumph. Maybe luck had finally decided to throw her a bone.

⸻

Ben was still cursing his luck when he felt a tap on his shoulder. He turned, phone still useless in his hand, to find a girl standing there—a young woman, really, with dark eyes that practically sparked in the fading light.

For a second—a split second—he just stared. She was pretty. Striking, actually, in a way that hit him right in the gut. Long hair pulled back in a messy ponytail, grease smudges on her hands, and that confident, unbothered stance that said she'd been through a lot and come out fighting.

He hated that his chest tightened at the sight of her.

"Need a hand there, mister?" she asked, voice calm, even. Not flirtatious—just matter-of-fact.

He blinked, the haze of attraction breaking as he remembered where he was—and who he was. He forced himself to scoff. "Thanks, but no thanks, sweetheart," he muttered, trying to wave her off like every other small-town girl who'd ever given him a second look. "I'll wait for AAA."

She barked a laugh—short and sharp—like she'd heard it all before. "You'd have better luck waiting for a spaceship to land out here," she said. "Cell service is shot for at least twenty miles. If you're lucky."

His jaw clenched. He hated that she was probably right. He hated that she was looking at him like he was a clueless city boy. He hated that her laugh made his stomach twist.

He sighed, resigned. "Fine," he said through gritted teeth. "How much?"

Her smile was small but smug, like she'd known from the start that she'd have the upper hand. She named a price—way higher than he'd have expected from someone in a town like this—but he knew desperation when he saw it.

And he was desperate, too.

He reached for his wallet, all too aware of her sharp eyes following the motion.

"Fine," he muttered, his voice low and biting. "Just do whatever you can so I can get the fuck outta this shithole."

Ben watched as she set down the small toolbox she'd fetched from somewhere—a battered, sticker-covered case that had clearly seen better days. She'd disappeared for a moment and now returned, her flowery sundress gone, replaced with a pair of old but sturdy denim overalls.

The switch hit him harder than he expected. The sundress had looked sweet and soft on her—deceptive. The overalls, though, suited her. They were worn and practical, the straps slightly frayed at the edges. She had her hair tied up in a messy bun, and a smudge of dirt already streaked across her cheek. She looked real.

Rey leaned over the Mercedes with a reverence he hadn't expected—almost like she was greeting an old friend. Her fingers were deft, quick, moving over the engine's intricate parts with the confidence of someone who'd been doing this her whole life.

Ben felt a jolt of surprise. He'd assumed—wrongly, he realized—that she'd just be some small-town girl trying to make a quick buck. But the way she moved—methodical, sure—told a different story. She knew this car. She knew cars.

"Beautiful machine," she murmured under her breath, almost too soft for him to catch. She was talking to the car, not him.

Ben frowned. Something twisted in his chest—some emotion he didn't want to name. He crossed his arms over his chest and tried to look anywhere but at the way her hands brushed the engine like it was something precious.

"You... work on these a lot?" he found himself asking.

She didn't look up. "Used to. When the shop was still open. Made decent money too."

She leaned in, the afternoon sun glinting off her hair. She looked like she belonged there—like grease-stained overalls and engine oil were her natural state.

Ben felt a flicker of—he didn't know what. Annoyance, maybe. Or admiration.

"Just fix the damn thing," he muttered, hating how his voice sounded.

She grinned, all confidence and challenge, and got to work.

⸻

It took her longer than she'd expected. Maybe that was on purpose—maybe she just didn't want to stop working on the thing.

The Mercedes was a beauty. Underneath the polished exterior and the fancy trim, it was a real machine—finely tuned, complicated, alive in a way only cars could be. She'd always loved that about them. They made sense, unlike most people.

She worked with practiced ease, hands steady and sure as she traced every line and pipe and belt. Her old coveralls were warm in the heat, but at least she didn't have to worry about oil stains on her dress.

A small smile tugged at her lips as she reached into the guts of the engine. She'd been good at this once—really good. She still was, she realized, with a pang of something like grief. She missed that shop. It had been the one place where she'd felt like she actually belonged, with the smell of motor oil and the clank of tools on concrete.

Of course, the universe had seen fit to rip that away too. It had closed down when she was sixteen—almost like a fuck you, right when she'd needed it most. She'd been between foster families then—one with so many kids she'd slept on the couch every night, the other practically reeking of meth.

She hated the system. She'd learned early on that she couldn't count on anyone but herself.

She blew out a breath, wiping the sweat from her forehead, and focused on the work. Cars never judged. Cars never asked why. They just needed fixing.

She tightened the last bolt and stepped back, stretching her arms overhead and rolling her stiff shoulders. The sun was dipping lower now, painting the sky with streaks of pink and gold. She glanced at the man—rich man, she'd gathered from the fine leather wallet he'd flashed—and felt that old flicker of defiance spark in her chest.

She was good at this. Better than most men she'd met in the business. And she'd just proven it again, even if he'd probably chalk it up to luck.

"Alright," she said, her voice firm as she wiped her hands on an old rag. "You're good to go. She'll purr like a kitten now."

She watched his eyes flicker over the engine, probably surprised. She didn't care. She'd done the job, and she'd done it well.

And no matter how many foster homes she'd bounced through, no matter how many times the universe tried to screw her over—she was still standing.

She was about to pack up her tools and wave him off when the wind picked up—sudden and sharp, like a slap across the face. Dust danced in the air, swirling around her boots. She paused, frowning.

The way the dirt skittered around her feet—fast, anxious—made her gut twist. A big one, she thought. A sandstorm, and not the mild kind.

"Shit," she muttered, scanning the horizon. The sky had taken on that sickly, gray-brown tint that meant trouble, and the air had the heavy, electric feel of a promise: It's coming.

She turned back to him—he was staring at the horizon like it was just an inconvenience, his brow furrowed in mild annoyance.

"Looks like your luck's as bad as mine today," he drawled, his tone halfway between sarcasm and irritation.

She wanted to laugh at him, wanted to throw his fancy boots back at him, but fear crawled up her spine like a living thing.

"No, you don't get it," she said, her voice sharper than she intended. "This is... this is bad. Like, real bad."

He crossed his arms, skeptical. "It's just some dust," he grumbled.

She shook her head. "No, city boy," she snapped. "It's a sandstorm—a big one. We're in the middle of nowhere. No hotels, no rest stops, no shelters, nothing for miles. You're gonna want to—"

She paused, the realization hitting her like a hammer.

Where the hell was he going to go?

The universe's sense of humor, she thought bitterly, was relentless.

Her eyes darted to the trailer—her trailer. It was barely standing on a good day, but it was something. It had a roof and four walls, and that made it better than nothing.

She let out a frustrated sigh, already regretting what she was about to say.

"You're gonna want to come with me," she said finally, staring him dead in the eye. "It's the only place around that's not gonna rip you to pieces."

His eyes widened—just a flicker—and she almost rolled hers. She knew how it sounded, but she didn't have time to explain how these storms worked or how quickly they could kill a man who thought he could wait it out in his car.

The wind picked up even more, blowing her hair across her face. She tugged the band tighter, glaring at him.

"Come on," she ordered, voice firm. "Now."

She didn't wait for him to argue. She grabbed her toolbox and headed for the trailer, hoping—praying—he'd follow.

Chapter Text

The wind howled like a living thing, slamming into the trailer with full force. Dust scraped along the windows, the kind of scraping that got under your skin. The whole structure groaned, metal joints complaining, like it might just give up and blow away.

Ben sat stiffly on the edge of Rey's sagging couch, arms crossed tight, jaw tighter. The whole place felt like it had been built from leftovers—furniture that didn't match, wallpaper peeling at the corners, air thick with heat and the faint scent of motor oil. He didn't belong here.

She moved through the space like she did. Calm. Efficient.

"I've got water," Rey said, heading toward the tiny kitchen.

Ben didn't move. "Anything stronger?"

She paused, half turned toward him, eyebrow raised. "I got schnapps."

He blinked. "Why the fuck do you have schnapps?"

She reached up and grabbed a dusty bottle from the top shelf. The label was peeling, some off-brand with a sad little plum illustration. "Mrs. Milkovitz, two trailers down, had a grandbaby. Dropped this off as a celebratory."

Ben stared. "That's a choice."

Rey shrugged. "This or nothing."

She poured two chipped mugs and handed him one. He stared into it like it might be poison.

"Plum schnapps in a sandstorm," he muttered. "Unreal."

"Middle of nowhere," Rey said, settling across from him, legs tucked up under her. "We make do."

He took a sip, grimaced. "Tastes like battery acid and jelly."

"You're not wrong."

They sat in silence for a moment, the storm pressing in around them.

"So," Ben said, swirling the schnapps in his mug, "you always pick up strangers and invite them into your... charming abode?"

"Only the ones dumb enough to stall out right in front of it," she replied.

He gave a short laugh. "Lucky me."

"Sure," Rey said. "Let's go with that."

He glanced around again—no TV, no clutter, no photos on the walls. Just what she needed to survive. Barely.

"You said you worked at a shop?"

"Yeah. Closed down a few years back."

"How old were you?"

"Sixteen."

Ben looked at her. "That's rough."

Rey gave a small, noncommittal nod. "Was in between foster families when it happened. One house had eight kids and a couch. The other smelled...questionable."

He didn't say anything to that.

"You ever think about leaving this place?" he asked instead.

"Every damn day," Rey said without hesitation.

"So why haven't you?"

She took another sip of schnapps, then gave him a crooked little smile. "Because that's my business, city boy."

Her voice tilted into something softer, more drawn out—just enough country twang to make it clear she was poking fun. She even threw in a wink.

Ben stared at her for a second, caught off guard. He almost smiled back, lips twitching before he covered it with another sip from his mug.

He barely noticed she was joking.

But Rey didn't press. Didn't explain. She didn't need to. The wink had done its job—light enough to shift the mood, firm enough to tell him that door was closed.

A beat passed.

"Parents?" he asked quietly.

She didn't look at him. "State raised me." A pause. "That's all you need to know."

Ben nodded slowly. He didn't press.

Rey leaned forward, resting her mug on her knee. "Got any more questions, or should I start charging?"

"How much?"

She gave a slow smile. "More than your Mercedes is worth in this shithole."

Outside, the wind kept screaming. But inside, it was still. Not soft. Not warm. Just... still.

⸻

A few hours had passed, though Ben barely noticed.

Maybe it was the schnapps dulling the edge of time. Maybe it was the way the wind outside had settled into a low, constant growl instead of a shriek. Or maybe—he hesitated to admit it—maybe it was her.

They hadn't talked nonstop, but when they did, it came easy—sharper than he expected.

She was stretched out now, one leg dangling off the arm of the chair, sipping slow, like this was just another night. She looked relaxed. Comfortable. In control.

Ben, somehow, didn't hate it.

"I'm just saying," he muttered, swirling the last of his schnapps around the bottom of the mug, "if your plan was to get me blackout drunk on bootleg plum schnapps and rob me blind, now's your chance."

Rey looked up, deadpan. "If I wanted to rob you, playboy, I'd have started with your watch and left you in the storm."

He glanced at the sleek face on his wrist and let out a quiet laugh. "Fair point."

"You don't give off 'I tip well' energy anyway."

Ben smirked. "That hurts."

"Good," she said, grinning, "you need it."

He tilted his head, eyes narrowing slightly. "You really don't pull punches, do you?"

"Nope. Costs extra."

Ben laughed, real this time. He leaned back, arms draped lazily over the back of the couch, eyes watching her in a different way now—not just amused. Curious. Maybe even a little impressed.

She was quick. Smart. And not just clever-for-a-small-town kind of smart—sharp, intuitive, self-taught, maybe, but solid. And she met him toe-to-toe, like she wasn't scared of him or the world he came from.

He winced slightly to himself, barely a flicker across his face. He hadn't expected that.

Not from someone out here. Not in a place like this.

But—come on—could you blame him?

Look at this place.

She caught the change in his expression—didn't say anything, but he saw her eyebrow tick. Just enough to let him know she noticed.

"I'm not a stereotype, if that's what you're chewing on," Rey said calmly, her voice steady but not defensive.

Ben looked over at her. "Didn't say you were."

"Didn't have to."

He looked down at his almost empty mug. "You're smarter than I gave you credit for."

"Yeah," she said, tipping her head with a mock-toast, "you're not the first man to say that. But points for admitting it sober."

She rose to grab the bottle again—this time bending just slightly toward him to reach the mugs. Her thigh brushed the edge of his knee as she passed. Not enough to mean anything. But enough for him to notice. Enough for her to pretend she didn’t.

When she handed him his refill, her fingers grazed his again. He took the mug slower than he needed to, eyes briefly locking with hers. She blinked, looked away, but her hand lingered half a second too long.

Later, when the schnapps had started to sink into her bloodstream and the storm got louder again, Rey stood and padded barefoot over to the couch, dragging a blanket behind her.

“This thing’s barely warmer than the wind,” she muttered, sitting at the opposite end—but not that far. Her knee was a foot from his thigh, her shoulder only inches from the curve of his arm.

Ben didn’t lean back this time.

He couldn’t.

At one point, she shifted under the blanket and her toes bumped his shin. “Sorry,” she murmured, not really sounding it.

He smirked. “Plum schnapps and footsie?”

“Shut up.”

But she was smiling. And she didn’t move her foot.

Outside, the storm kept on. But inside, something had shifted. Not trust. Not quite. But something close enough to keep them talking just a little longer.

⸻

As they talked—about everything and nothing all at once—Ben paused mid-thought, his words trailing off as a sudden realization flickered across his face.

He stared at her, then let out a quiet curse under his breath.

"What?" Rey asked, watching him over the rim of her mug.

"I—" He sighed and rubbed the back of his neck. "I haven't even introduced myself."

He winced. Hard. His mother would've pulled his ear for that, voice sharp with disappointment. His father would've smirked, said something sarcastic like 'What, manners not included in the trust fund?'—then rolled his eyes.

His grandfather... well, he didn't want to think about Anakin in this moment.

Ben stood up, maybe a bit too fast—he wasn't drunk, exactly, but he wasn't not tipsy—and smacked the top of his head clean into the low trailer ceiling.

"Shit," he hissed, staggering slightly as he grabbed his skull.

Rey choked back a laugh, but he caught the shake of her shoulders and the way she bit her bottom lip, eyes glinting as she tried very hard not to make fun of him.

He squinted at her, still wincing. "That funny to you?"

"A little," she said, deadpan. But her eyes were warm.

He stuck out a hand anyway. "Ben," he said, feeling ridiculous. "Ben Solo."

She stared at his hand for a second like she was debating it, then reached out and took it. Her grip was firm, her palm calloused.

"Rey," she said simply. "Just Rey."

That smile—small, crooked, guarded but there—hit him right in the chest.

And maybe it was the schnapps, or the storm still shaking the world outside, but his heart did a stupid, tiny pop.

"...Nice to meet you, Just Rey," he murmured, not letting go right away.

She arched a brow. "Nice to meet you too, Ben-'get me out of this shithole'-Solo."

He laughed softly and let her hand go.

Outside, the wind wailed. But inside, something quieter settled in.

Something new.

⸻

Ben leaned back on the couch, fingers still running through his hair, rubbing the spot where he'd smacked it earlier. He studied her quietly—legs curled under her, one hand wrapped around that chipped mug like it belonged there.

She looked young. Not in a concerning way, not that young, but still. A lot younger than him, probably.

"How old are you?" he asked.

She didn't answer right away. Just blinked at him, her mouth tightening a little like the question pinched somewhere she didn't want to touch.

Then she said, "Twenty-four."

Ben nodded slowly. Something in her tone didn't quite match the number, but he didn't press.

⸻

Rey held his gaze a second longer than she meant to, then looked down into her mug. The schnapps tasted even sweeter now, sickly and stupid.

Twenty-four.

She hated lying, even the soft kind. But she couldn't help it.

Nineteen always came with a reaction—the pause, the pity, the "you live alone?" and the tight smiles, like she was one tragic story away from being someone's cautionary tale.

She was tired of that look.

Twenty-four bought her space. Dignity. Just enough distance to not be underestimated.

She caught him watching her out of the corner of her eye, but he didn't say anything. No soft chuckle, no "you don't look it." Just a nod.

She appreciated that.

More than she'd admit.

⸻

Rey knocked back another shot of that cursed plum schnapps like it was water, barely wincing. Ben just watched her, silent for a beat, then let his eyes wander the trailer again.

At first glance, it had been... a sight. Cluttered, cramped, lived-in. But now, with the edge of the storm humming like a distant engine and the schnapps softening the hard outlines of his judgment, he started to notice the details.

The place was clean—cleaner than he'd expected. Surfaces wiped down, dishes stacked neatly. No garbage, no stink of neglect.

In the corner, nestled inside an old wooden crate labeled Texas Peaches, he saw books. Organized, well-used, spines cracked from rereading.

And not just books—textbooks.

He squinted slightly. Calculus. Statics. Intro to Thermodynamics.

Mechanical engineering.

He shifted forward, elbow resting on his knee. "You study mechanical engineering?" he asked slowly, his voice edged with genuine surprise.

She didn't look up right away. Just smiled.

⸻

"I do," she said, voice a little lighter than she felt. "Well... I'm taking community college classes for now. Free ones."

She tucked one leg under the other and ran her thumb along the rim of her empty mug. "Almost got all my credits to actually enroll next year. Hopefully at—" she hesitated just a second, "Lone Star Technical."

It sounded better when she said it fast, before her throat could close up.

She hoped. No—she prayed.

If she could just keep scraping tips at Plutt's godawful diner, and maybe keep the trailer from falling apart in the meantime, she might actually make it through enrollment. Might actually get out.

She didn't look at Ben while she said it. She didn't want to see that look again—the one people gave her when she talked about trying to do more than survive.

But he didn't say anything. Not right away. And maybe that silence wasn't judgment. Maybe it was just... listening.

She hoped.
⸻

Ben nodded, jaw tightening slightly.

His mother, Leia, had been a political powerhouse—ran campaigns like war strategy, chaired global initiatives like they were weekend brunches, gave speeches that rattled senators into line and made her enemies look polished while they bled.

His father, Han, had been a tenured anthropology professor—retired now, but still known in academic circles for his cutting lectures, love of obscure fieldwork, and even sharper sarcasm.

And then there was Luke.

Uncle Luke.

They hadn't always seen eye to eye—hell, these days, Ben wasn't really seeing eye to eye with anyone in his family. Not with the way his grandfather's shadow had started to stretch longer over his life, threading through every damn conversation, expectation, decision.

But Luke?

Luke had been the quiet one. The steady one. An engineer—mechanical, no less—who'd spent decades teaching at New York Polytechnical Institute, or whatever other ivory-tower name it went by now.

Ben respected the hell out of him.

Even if they couldn't get through a five-minute conversation without trading dry remarks—mostly from Ben, who couldn't help pushing buttons just to feel something flicker in return.

And who could forget the patriarch of it all.

His grandfather.

Anakin Skywalker.

A god, depending on who you asked. On paper, a man who'd built one of the most powerful conglomerates on the planet—energy, defense, tech, pharmaceuticals—every industry touched, every corner of the market bent beneath his name.

Ben however?

Ben had coasted. Screwed around in high school like it was a competitive sport, got into Stanford because of his last name, charmed his way through a double major in Business and Political Science. Because, of course, "Granddaddy wants someone to be President one day."

He snorted quietly to himself, took another sip of the sickly-sweet schnapps.

Yeah. Right.

And now here he was. In the middle of nowhere. Sitting on a sagging couch in a trailer that shook every time the wind breathed wrong, and across from him—this girl.

This woman.

Sharp as hell, smarter than half the kids he went to school with, and clawing her way toward an engineering degree with nothing but grit, old textbooks, and a plastic mug of schnapps.

She didn't ask for his respect. But she had it.

He stared at her for a second too long, then looked away, clearing his throat.

Once the storm passed, he was giving her a tip. No question.

On top of what she'd already charged him—which, sure, had been absolutely inflated, but still.

He had to.

It was the least he could do.

For her time. Her work.

Her quiet fucking dignity.

Damn schnapps.

Chapter Text

Rey stood slowly from the chair, stretching out her legs with a quiet breath. She crossed to the window and gently pulled back the edge of the curtain.

Still bad.

The wind hadn't eased. Sand swept in wild sheets across the yard, piling against anything that stood still long enough to catch it. The Mercedes sat out there like a forgotten monument, its sleek black body buried halfway up the tires in dust.

She winced a little. "Poor baby," she murmured.

She'd fix it. She was good at fixing things. Always had been.

The curtain fluttered back into place as she turned around, arms folding loosely over her chest.

Ben was still on the couch, mug balanced on his knee, eyes half-lidded and tracking her movement.

She didn't say anything at first. The trailer was quiet now—quiet in a way that made her too aware of her breathing, the sound of the wind like a dull roar just outside the walls.

Something between them had shifted.

Maybe it was the storm. The hours stuck in this cramped space. The schnapps.

Or maybe it was the way he was looking at her now—calm, unreadable, but focused.

Rey glanced down, brushing a stray hair behind her ear. "You gonna make it through the night, Solo?" she asked, trying to keep her voice light.

Ben's lips tugged into a half-smile. "You offering to tuck me in?"

She blinked, caught off guard. Her smile was small, embarrassed, barely there.

"Not unless you've got a death wish," she mumbled, retreating toward the counter, fingers curling around the edge.

"You don't seem like the type who likes being taken care of," he said after a beat. "Even when you probably need it."

Rey looked down, then away. Her voice was softer this time. "Doesn't usually go great when I let people try."

He didn't respond right away, and she didn't fill the silence.

It stretched—quiet, close, and not entirely uncomfortable. Just... full.

She risked a glance up. He was still watching her. Same steady gaze.

It made her chest feel tight, made her fingers itch to fidget.

Maybe it was the schnapps. Or the storm. Or just the way he hadn't judged her—not once—not really.

Rey looked away again, cheeks warm.

She didn't know who would move first.

But something had changed.

And even if nothing happened... she knew it was already too late to go back.

⸻

Fucking schnapps, Ben thought, jaw tight as his gaze followed her across the room.

It wasn't just watching—it was borderline stalking, the way his eyes tracked every move she made. His gaze felt hot, his chest even hotter, and he couldn't for the life of him figure out what the hell was wrong with him.

It's not like he hadn't had sex lately. Hell, just last weekend, on a yacht off the coast of Capri—some model-slash-influencer whose name he couldn't remember now, just long legs and high-pitched laughter.

So no, he wasn't pent-up. Not technically.

But still—there he was, eyes glued to a girl in beat-up overalls, in a trailer the size of a walk-in closet, and his pulse wouldn't settle down.

It wasn't just her face, though her face was—yeah, very nice to look at. And it wasn't just her body either—though he'd clocked the way those overalls clung to her hips more than once, and hated himself a little every time.

It was the way she moved. Confident, unfussy, unbothered.

Real.

And maybe that was what was throwing him off. He'd been raised on plastic polish and PR smiles. Rey had none of that. She wasn't playing coy. She wasn't playing anything. She was just... existing. And somehow, that was more dangerous than anything else.

His foot started tapping, restless.

She moved toward what he guessed was the bedroom—if you could even call it that. Two steps back, one short left turn, and she crouched down to pull out what looked like a makeshift mattress from a fold-down frame.

It creaked, uneven, and she tested it with her hand before yanking a thin blanket from the overhead shelf.

She didn't even glance at him.

Ben sat frozen, staring like a man who'd forgotten what comes next.

Because apparently, this was what did it. Not yachts. Not models. Not hotels with champagne chilled before he even asked.

No.

It was a girl in a trailer, unfolding a secondhand mattress like it was nothing.

And he could barely breathe.

⸻

Rey felt her hands twisting behind her back, fingers fidgeting with the hem of her shirt like they had a mind of their own.

Stop it. It's okay.

She tried to breathe slow, tried to tell herself she wasn't being stupid.

He's not dangerous.

Yeah? You so sure, dummy? Who the hell invites a total stranger into their home?

Her inner voice was loud now, panicked, spiraling.

There was a storm, she reminded herself. He was stranded. It made sense.

Still.

She glanced over her shoulder at him—still sitting on her couch like he belonged there, elbows on his knees, watching her with that unreadable face.

Her heart beat a little harder. Not in fear exactly, but something adjacent. Unfamiliar. Unsettling.

She cleared her throat awkwardly and gestured to the mattress she'd pulled out. "You can... uh, sleep here."

Her voice sounded thin, forced.

"I'm more comfy on the couch anyway," she added quickly, pointing to where he was still parked. "It's... better for my back."

Not true. The couch had a spring poking through the middle.

She didn't meet his eyes. Just turned and started unfolding the blanket, trying to make it look like this was no big deal.

Totally normal.

Just a girl offering her bed to a stranger with a Mercedes and cheekbones sharp enough to hurt someone.

Nothing to see here.

Nothing at all.

⸻

She was nervous.

No—scratch that.

She was scared.

Ben saw it all at once. The way her hands wouldn't stay still, the stiffness in her shoulders, the way she wouldn't meet his eyes.

And it hit him like a goddamn punch to the ribs.

Fuck.

That was the last thing he ever wanted.

Even if he didn't like the girl—which, in this case, he very much did—he never, ever wanted to be the reason a woman felt unsafe. Not even for a second.

Uncle Luke and his dad had all but hammered that into him the day of his bar mitzvah. Luke, with his quiet intensity and sharp eyes, had pulled him aside after the service, handed him a small tin of mints, and said, "You're a man now. That means when a woman says no, you stop. And when she looks like she's scared, you take ten steps back."

Han had added, "And don't be a dick, kid. That covers most things."

They'd joked about it. But they hadn't been joking.

And Ben hadn't forgotten.

He shifted on the couch, hands flat on his thighs, forcing his posture to stay open, nonthreatening.

"You don't have to give up your bed," he said, his voice lower now, steady. "I'll take the floor if you want. Or the porch, hell—just say the word."

She looked up, surprised.

He didn't move. Didn't smirk. Just held her gaze.

"It's your space," he added, a little quieter. "I'm not here to make you uncomfortable."

And he meant it. Every goddamn word.

Even if his heart was still pounding. Even if he couldn't stop thinking about the curve of her spine when she bent to fix that mattress. Even if everything in him was wound tight.

He'd sleep on nails before he made her feel unsafe.

And somehow, that made the tension between them even worse.

Because now he wanted her to want him there.

And that was a much more dangerous storm.

⸻

Rey exhaled, slow and quiet.

He hadn't moved. Hadn't leaned forward. Hadn't pushed.

And when he spoke—gently, of all things—it did something strange to her chest.

She glanced up and found him looking at her with that open, steady gaze. No pressure. No smugness. Just... waiting.

Her lips tugged into a small, almost involuntary smile.

He's sweet, she thought.

That's how they get you.

Oh shut up already, another part of her snapped.

She shook her head a little, more at herself than him. "It's okay, Solo," she said softly. "Would hate to show you bad country hospitality."

She gestured toward the mattress again, this time with a little more confidence, even if her cheeks still felt warm.

"You sleep there. I'll take the couch."

And when she looked at him again, he was still watching her.

But this time, she didn't look away.

Not right away, at least.

⸻

"I'm taking the couch, Rey."

Ben said it softly, but there was no room for argument.

He saw her start to open her mouth—some mix of pride and protest on her tongue—but all it took was a slight tilt of his head. A look.

She huffed through her nose, a flicker of something like amusement in her eyes... and finally nodded.

She was stubborn. He liked that.

But he'd put his foot down, and for once, it held.

An hour or two passed in a kind of quiet haze. He'd retreated to the trailer's sad little bathroom, handled the inevitable (because schnapps always came with consequences), and returned to the couch, settling in with a grunt and a twist of the thin blanket she'd thrown over the back.

It wasn't the most awkward thing he'd ever experienced. But it ranked.

Still, the air was cooler now, the wind not quite screaming anymore, and the storm felt more distant, like it had moved on to harass someone else.

Ben shifted on the cushions, trying to find a position that didn't jam a spring into his spine—when he heard her moving.

And because God apparently had jokes, and his personal torment was free content, he also had to hear her changing.

Nothing graphic. Just the rustle of fabric, the faint shuffle of bare feet, the unmistakable creak of the makeshift mattress as she moved around.

He turned his face toward the back of the couch. Don't picture it. Don't be that guy.

He failed.

When she finally emerged, he looked up—and promptly lost the mental war.

Rey stood at the edge of the narrow hallway, barefoot, her hair pulled up into a lazy bun, wearing an oversized white T-shirt and SpongeBob pajama bottoms.

She caught his stare and shrugged, the corner of her mouth lifting into a half-grin. "Walmart had 'em on special."

Ben blinked once, then exhaled through his nose, jaw flexing.

Of course she did. Of course they were.

She looked like she belonged nowhere and everywhere all at once—ridiculous, endearing, impossibly real.

Like a fucking doll someone had dressed in the nearest clearance rack and dared to make beautiful.

He buried himself deeper into the couch. "Great. Now I'm sure to have nightmares about sponges living under the sea."

Rey grinned wider, amused. "You'll live."

Ben felt his heart jump.

⸻

Ben slept... well.

Not like a baby, per se—unless babies slept on what felt like the dull ends of chopsticks stabbing into their ribs every time they turned. The couch was hell. His back would pay for it tomorrow.

But still—he slept.

Sort of.

Because despite the creaks and the wind and the one rogue spring that had it out for his kidneys, he kept listening.

To her.

The soft rhythm of her breath just a few feet away. The faint rustle when she shifted under her thin blanket. The way her hand had slipped out from beneath her pillow at some point, fingers curling against the edge of the mattress like they were searching for something.

She looked small in sleep. Fragile, almost.

Ben turned his face toward the back of the couch and squeezed his eyes shut.

Don't go there.

The last thing she wanted—the last thing she needed—was pity.

But damn if he didn't feel it press up behind his ribs anyway. Not in a condescending way. Just in that helpless, gnawing way you feel when you know the world's given someone less than they deserve.

He didn't have a clue what it was like to live like this—really live like this. To survive on your own, scrap what you could and hold your breath when storms came in case your roof didn't hold.

But he did know what it felt like to have people try to help you when you didn't ask.

His mother, sharp and immovable. His father, sarcastic and sincere. Luke—always too wise, always watching.

Always stepping in. Always butting in.

Every time Ben had started to inch closer to who his grandfather was—what he represented—they'd tightened the leash. Offered him a hand, a lecture, a lifeline.

None of it ever felt like a choice.

He'd spent years pushing back.

And now here he was. Lying on a busted couch in a stranger's trailer, heart thudding harder than it should, trying not to care that she was just over there—breathing softly, fingers twitching in her sleep.

God.

What the hell was he doing here?

He didn't know.

But he wasn't moving.

Not yet.

⸻

He was handsome.

Rey sipped her coffee in slow, careful gulps, cradling her favorite mug in both hands—the one she'd definitely stolen from Plutt's diner last year after he stiffed her on tips one too many times. The chipped rim didn't bother her. It felt like hers.

Morning light crept in through the slats of the blinds, gold and drowsy, settling over everything in a soft, dusty glow.

Ben was still asleep on the couch.

Sprawled out like the damn thing was designed for him—which it most definitely wasn't. His legs were too long, one arm flung over his head, the other resting loosely across his stomach. The blanket she'd given him had been kicked halfway to the floor sometime in the night.

His dark hair—thick and slightly wavy—was messier than it had been yesterday, falling over his forehead in a way that looked unfairly good for someone who'd spent the night losing a fight with her couch.

His lips were parted just slightly in sleep—soft and pouty in a way that felt wrong for a man that broad, that sharp-jawed.

Strong nose. High cheekbones. A few scattered moles she hadn't noticed until now, dotting the edges of his face, like the universe had marked him up with care.

He didn't look real.

Or rather, he didn't look like he belonged in her trailer.

Rey blinked, shook the thought away, and took another sip.

Still...

Unconventional, sure. But yeah. Handsome.

Dangerously so.

And worse—he looked peaceful.

And for some reason, that was the part that got to her.

Chapter Text

He stirred slowly, dragged out of sleep like something underwater. His body ached in at least six separate places—neck, shoulders, back, hip, back again.

Jesus. Fuck this couch. Fuck this trailer. Fuck everything.

Ben groaned as he shifted, the blanket tangled around his legs like a net, the light already pushing through his eyelids too insistently. He peeled one eye open, vision blurry, breath catching mid-yawn.

That's when he saw her.

Rey was standing in the little kitchen, already dressed—well, half-dressed. Still in those ridiculous SpongeBob pajama pants and that oversized white T-shirt, but she'd pulled her hair into something neater. She turned at the sound of him waking, her fingers tight around a mismatched mug.

"Good morning," she said softly.

A little shy. Not quite looking at him head-on. But she smiled—quick and uncertain, like she wasn't sure he'd even answer.

Ben blinked a few times, brain catching up.

"Yeah... m–morning," he mumbled, voice hoarse as hell. He stretched, jaw cracking mid-yawn.

Fuck his back. Fuck his head. Fuck everything.

And then—

He looked at her fully.

Fuck everything. Literally.

She was beautiful.

Even now, in the uneven light of early morning. No makeup, no act, just standing there with her mug and her quiet little smile and sleep still clinging to the corners of her.

Beautiful in that annoying, honest way that hit harder when you weren't ready for it.

She stepped forward, holding something out. He blinked again—coffee.

She handed it to him, and their fingers brushed—just for a second. Warm.

He took it with both hands, grateful. "Thanks," he said, low and rough, the word barely audible.

She gave a small nod and turned back toward the window, sipping from her own cup like nothing had happened.

But something had.

Ben didn't know what to call it yet.

He just knew it settled deep.

And it wasn't going anywhere.

⸻

Rey felt her heart thud—steady, stupid, loud.

She'd never woken up next to a man before.

Okay, sure, technically they hadn't woken up next to each other. There were a few feet and a busted couch between them. But still.

She wasn't used to sharing morning light with someone else in the room. Especially not someone tall and broad and now very rumpled, blinking at her like she was both the sunrise and the headache.

She turned back to her coffee, took a long sip. It needed more sugar, but she kept drinking anyway, hoping it would muffle the part of her brain that was acting like a fool.

She cleared her throat and forced her voice into something casual. "Engine's fine, by the way. Pretty sure it's just a matter of cleaning out the air filters—dust got in 'em good. Might have to re-check your intake hoses too, just in case something got rattled loose in that wind. I'll top off the fluids, too—make sure she's runnin' smooth."

She paused, took another sip, then added with a wry little grin, "Windshield's a mess, though. Caked like a pie crust left out in a dust storm. I'm gonna have to elbow grease that sucker like I'm wrasslin' a mule."

Ben just stared at her.

Coffee halfway to his mouth.

Blinking slowly.

Then, finally, he nodded once. "Right. Of course."

Rey smiled into her mug, biting back a laugh.

He looked like he didn't understand half of what she just said.

But he listened.

And somehow, that mattered more than she wanted it to.

⸻

Ben didn't understand a damn thing the pretty girl standing in front of him had just said.

Something about filters. Hoses. Pie crusts. And... wrasslin' a mule?

What the fuck does that even mean?

He didn't ask. Just took another sip of the too-strong coffee and nodded along like it made perfect sense.

He liked cars. Always had. His so-called collection had started before he'd even hit seventeen—just one ridiculously expensive gift after another, courtesy of a grandfather who didn't believe in limits or normalcy. Ferraris, Aston Martins, a McLaren he crashed once because he took a corner too fast trying to impress a girl whose name he forgot before the airbag deflated.

And that was eleven years ago.

He knew the basics. When to change the oil. What bad brakes felt like. Which lights on the dash actually meant do something now versus ignore and pray.

But this?

This trailer girl with grease-stained hands and textbook knowledge? She was talking on a level way above his.

And the kicker? He didn't even mind.

Because in this case—

Yeah. Rey was the expert.

And he'd trust her over every suit-wearing technician his family had ever paid under the table.

He nodded again, coffee warming his hands, but not as much as the slow, unfamiliar feeling curling in his chest.

⸻

The afternoon sun had started to dip low, casting long, hazy shadows over the dirt lot. The air was dry, thick with leftover heat, and dust clung to everything—but the Mercedes? It gleamed.

Rey stood back, wiping her forearm across her brow as she admired her work.

Windshield clear. Filters cleaned. Fluids topped off. Engine humming smooth as butter on a skillet.

She turned and grinned, eyes finding Ben leaning casually against the trailer with a fresh coffee in one hand and that maddening little smirk tugging at his lips.

"All good, Solo," she called, tossing the rag into her toolbox. "Ready to ride."

He pushed off the trailer, stretching just enough to make her annoyingly aware of how tall he was, how broad his shoulders really looked in daylight.

"Great," he said, reaching for his back pocket. "As we agreed."

She blinked.

Then froze.

Because from his wallet, he pulled out a thick fold of hundreds. Her brain moved fast—too fast—and she clocked it instantly: at least a grand. Maybe more.

"For the help," he added, peeling a few bills off and stepping toward her.

Rey's face flushed. Her chest tightened, pride and panic locking up her lungs at the same time.

"N–no, wait—"

He held up a hand, eyes narrowing—not angry, not really—but firm, with just the faintest trace of that teasing glint.

"Do not start, Rey," he said, voice low. "I'm already sure your couch gave me a knot no masseuse is gonna be able to work out for the next five years."

She hesitated. Her fists clenched at her sides.

But he was still looking at her, expression level. Not smug. Not pitying.

Just... paying her.

Like she earned it.

And she had.

She took the bills carefully, fingers trembling just a little. "Thanks," she said quietly.

He had no idea what this meant for her. What this could mean. Groceries. A month and a half worth of bills paid for. A repaired alternator on her truck. Maybe even enough to finally register for that one credit hour she kept pushing off.

But she'd worked for it. Every cent.

There was no pity in the transaction.

Only respect.

And somehow, that made it harder to breathe.

⸻

Ben sat stiffly behind the wheel, the leather still warm from the sun.

His hands gripped it hard, knuckles whitening with the pressure.

Rey stood just off to the side, arms crossed loosely over her chest, faint smile tugging at her lips. Not smug. Not teasing. Just... soft.

That only made it worse.

He nodded once.

She nodded back.

And that was supposed to be it.

He turned toward the dashboard, jaw clenched so tight it hurt.

Fuck.

Fuckfuckfuckfuckfuck.

Everything in him rebelled at the idea of shifting that gear into drive. He didn't want to leave.

Didn't want to lose sight of her in the rearview.

Didn't want this—whatever this was—to dissolve the second his tires hit pavement.

So he didn't go.

Instead, he sighed—loudly, heavily—and shoved the door open again.

Climbed out of the car like it offended him.

She raised her brows as he stalked toward her, all six-foot-whatever of him practically looming.

"Wow," he drawled, voice rich with sarcasm, "and this is my first real experience with Southern hospitality?"

He exaggerated the accent just slightly as he said it—hospitaliteh.

"What, no pie, Rey? No home-cooked meal before you send me off into the unforgiving wild?"

She blinked, caught somewhere between confusion and a laugh.

And Ben?

He was just trying to buy five more minutes.

Because he didn't know what the hell this was between them.

But he knew damn well he wasn't ready to drive away from it.

⸻

Rey laughed softly, lips stained faintly red from the cherry filling as she carved another bite out of the pie tin. It was too sweet, the crust a little too stiff from the freezer burn, but she didn't care. It was warm, and she was eating it with someone who didn't make her feel small.

Ben sat across from her, long legs sprawled out, shoulders loose in a way that didn't match the man who'd snarled at his broken-down car just yesterday. He looked comfortable now. Too comfortable. Like he belonged in this crumbling trailer kitchen. Like he wasn't a walking reminder of everything she didn't have.

Still, she let herself enjoy it.

They'd driven to the closest grocery—barely a store by city standards—and she'd made him pick the pie himself. She hadn't missed the way his nose wrinkled at the freezer aisle, or the way his hand hovered like he'd never bought dessert that didn't come plated on porcelain. But he hadn't complained. Not really.

She'd only stiffened for a second when they ran into Rose at checkout. Her friend had blinked twice, then immediately mouthed, who the hell is that? with a kind of expression that would've made Rey snort if her stomach wasn't in knots.

Later, she mouthed back with a weak smile.

Back at the trailer, she'd set the pie on the counter and pulled down her only clean forks. Ben hadn't hesitated. He took a seat like it meant nothing and asked for her number like it was a normal thing—"for emergencies," he'd said, voice dry, eyes not quite meeting hers.

"In case the car gives me trouble again," he added, lips twitching. She knew better. So did he.

She gave it anyway.

Now, with dusk curling through the slatted window blinds, the trailer felt quieter than usual. Not heavy, but charged. Like everything between them could shift with a look. Or a word.

She tucked one leg under herself, leaning her elbow on the table. Her hand grazed the rim of the tin. It was almost gone.

She hadn't felt like this in a long time. Maybe ever.

Warm.

Seen.

Not fixed or saved or pitied—just... equal. For the first time in a while.

She glanced up and found him watching her again. Not hungry, not smug. Just watching.

She looked away.

Better not to read into it.

Better to focus on the pie.

Better to pretend this night would end the way all the others did.

Quiet.

Forgettable.

Alone.

⸻

He wanted to lick the cherry off her lips.

The thought hit him between one bite and the next, slow and unshakable, as his eyes lingered on her mouth. She didn't even notice—too focused on dragging her fork along the pie crust like she was nervous it might break again.

Not the pie. Her composure.

She was nervous, yeah—but not like last night. Not that stiff, cautious kind that made him back off fast. This was different. Giddy. A little shy. That kind of nervous he liked watching bloom in someone, the kind that curled at the corners of her lips and made her eyes dart away just a second too late.

God, he liked it on her. Too much.

Ben took another bite just to busy his hands. The pie wasn't bad. Sweet, tart, sticky—like it had no right being as good as it was after sitting in some freezer half a decade.

But her?

She was better.

His gaze drifted again, half-lidded now, as silence folded around them—not awkward, not empty. Just... easy.

She shifted in her seat, brushing her hair behind her ear like she didn't know what to do with herself. Her knee bumped the table. She muttered a curse.

Ben smiled to himself.

Fuck.

He was already screwed.

And it wasn't just the damn schnapps this time.

⸻

Rey felt it—right in her stomach, in her throat, in the way her breath caught every time he looked at her like that.

That look.

Low-lidded. Heavy. Like he wasn't just looking at her—he was seeing her. And not just her face, either. No, this gaze skimmed right under her skin, as if he was quietly peeling her open with just his eyes.

She hated how much she liked it.

Her insides gave a slow, shameful melt as she dropped her gaze to her fork. Focus, she told herself. You're just eating pie. That's it. That's all.

But her hand trembled just a little.

She hadn't... done anything. Not really. Not yet, anyway.

There was Wesley Snaps—God help her. That one summer before graduation. He'd kissed her behind the barn and whispered clumsy things like you're so pretty when you're mad, and she'd let him take her up into his daddy's old wheat thresher, thinking maybe it'd happen. Maybe that would be her first.

He'd chickened out.

Said he wanted to stay pure for his future wife, and Rey had rolled her eyes so hard they nearly fell out her head. Still, she'd climbed back down half-grateful. Because deep down, she knew—it wouldn't have meant anything. Not to him. Not to her.

She didn't want special. She wasn't a girl who believed in fairytales. She just wanted to know what the fuss was about.

But the fuss faded fast when every guy in her town was either too dumb to hold a conversation or too mean to know how to treat a girl.

Dangerous combo.

So she'd sworn them off. She'd kept to herself. Head down. Money first. Get out.

And then—

Ben Solo.

He wasn't even doing anything. Just sitting there, eyes on her like she was something rare. Not precious. Not fragile.

But wanted.

And Rey felt her resolve flicker like a candle too close to a window draft.

Because damn him, she was starting to want him back.

Even if she knew better.

Even if she knew this couldn't last.

Even if it made her feel like she was standing at the edge of something she couldn't name, heart thudding, skin too hot, pie too sweet, and his gaze—

God help her.

It hadn't let her go.

Chapter Text

He jumped slightly when her fork clattered against the plate, the sudden noise jolting the quiet between them.

Rey gave a nervous little laugh, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear like it could somehow erase the heat crawling up her neck. "I—I'm gonna make some sweet tea," she blurted. "That I can do. T-that's something I can... okay."

And then she was gone.

Well—gone as far as five or six steps could take her in the cramped layout of her trailer. But still, it was movement, and Ben let her have it, watching her back as she opened the creaky fridge with an awkward kind of purpose.

He didn't move.

Didn't say anything either.

Just leaned back slowly into the couch, lips curling as he exhaled—low and amused. She was... something else. And he didn't mean that in the casual way people threw the phrase around. Rey was the kind of something that stuck with you.

And then she turned.

She'd changed again.

Back into that sundress she'd had on the first day they met—lightweight and sunbleached from wear, but hugging her like it still remembered how. And fuck if it didn't hit him all over again.

She didn't even know, did she?

How dangerous she looked like that—bare feet padding across the floor, loose strands of hair falling across flushed cheeks, and a jug of tea in one hand like she was about to bless the whole damn world.

Ben ran a hand through his hair and muttered under his breath, "I am so fucked."

And he wasn't wrong.

Rey huffed as she fumbled with the mason jar of sugar, her fingers trembling just enough to rattle the lid.

Okay. Sugar first. Then the tea. Don't forget the damn tea. That's like... crucial in sweet tea, dumbass—Jesus, Rey...

She blew a curl from her face, her chest rising and falling a little too quick, her heartbeat hammering like a loose piston under her ribs.

Goddamnit, breathe. You're fine. You're good. You're—

And then she froze.

Because something—someone—pressed gently behind her. Not rough. Not sudden. Just there.

Hard yet soft. Warm. Close.

His chest.

She inhaled sharply, but it wasn't air she tasted. It was him.

That cologne—woodsy, clean, something expensive she couldn't name but knew she'd crave again after this.

Then came his breath.

Soft against her nape.

Not a word.

Just that slow, torturous exhale ghosting over the delicate skin just beneath her hairline, and every muscle in her body locked like she'd been hit with a live wire.

The sugar slipped from her grasp and thunked dully onto the counter.

She didn't move.

Couldn't.

Because she was pretty damn sure if she turned around right now—if she so much as looked at him—she wouldn't be able to stop whatever was about to happen next.

"Rey..."

Her name left his mouth in a low whisper—barely formed, more breath than sound—as his right hand slid down, encircling her wrist with a gentleness that didn't match the storm building between them.

"I don't want tea, baby..."

His voice was velvet-slick, that slow drawl he knew women felt in their bones. He'd used it before—casually, carelessly, with half a smirk and zero aftermath.

But this time was different.

Because Rey was different.

The way she stilled under his touch, the way her breath hitched like her body was arguing with her brain—Ben felt it. All of it. And he basked in it.

Not out of ego. Not this time.

No, this time it was something deeper. Something that curled hot and slow beneath his skin like it mattered.

He let his fingers brush the inside of her wrist—soft, reverent.

"Turn around," he murmured, still close, still just behind her. "Let me see you."

Rey felt her knees threaten betrayal, her balance tilting like the floor beneath her wasn't quite solid anymore.

Slowly—so slowly—she turned, her eyes fluttering shut for half a second before blinking back open. She stared down, not quite able to meet his gaze.

"I'm not..." Her voice cracked, barely above a whisper. "I'm not good at this..."

She winced the second it came out. Like it hurt to hear herself say it.

And then—God—he laughed.

Not mocking. Not mean. Just soft. Warm. Like melted butter on a biscuit, slow and sure.

"Good at what, baby?" he murmured, already reaching for her, his fingers gentle as they tipped her chin back to face him.

Her breath caught.

"K-kissin," she mumbled. "And... stuff."

Her fucking voice.

She sounded like a child. A scared one. Embarrassed.

But he didn't laugh again. Didn't tease.

His thumb brushed just under her jaw, and when he spoke next, his voice was low. Steady.

"Then lucky for you," he said, leaning in, "I'm very, very good at teachin."

He saw her lips part, slow and uncertain, her lashes fluttering like she wasn't sure if she should blink or just keep watching him. Fuck. She was right there—soft and hesitant, so clearly on the edge of letting him in.

But then—
"You... you got a girl, Solo?"

The words came out almost shy, breathy, barely more than a whisper. But there was something sharp tucked underneath it. A quiet, clear challenge. You're not a bastard, right? You're not that guy?

Ben froze.

His chest tightened.

Because—shit.

No.
Well—maybe yes—
But fuck no.

He didn't have a girl.

His mouth parted like he was going to laugh, bitter and unamused. Phasma. Christ. The woman was like a walking glacier. Tall, cool, beautiful in the kind of way that made people nervous to stand next to her. She wasn't his girlfriend—never had been, not really. They'd shared a bed a few times, sure, but even back in college, both of them had agreed it wasn't... that.

And then yesterday.
Dear old Grandfather.
The announcement. The expectation. The ultimatum.

His stomach twisted.

He didn't have a girl.
Not the one who mattered.
Not the one standing in front of him right now, eyes wide and lips still parted like she didn't even realize how pretty she looked doing nothing at all.

He couldn't tell her. Not now.
Not yet.

So he didn't blink.
Didn't hesitate.
Didn't give her any reason to keep that guard up.

"No," he said, voice low, steady, laced with conviction. "Absolutely no girl, Rey."

And he said it so cleanly, so firmly, he could've had a jury eating out of his palm.

She felt her shoulders ease, the tightness in her chest giving way to a slow, quiet release. Her lips curved into a small, half-smile—unsure, a little bashful, but real.

No girl. Absolutely no girl.

She believed him.
Fully.
Totally.
Completely.

Oh, she was gonna go to church next Sunday. No excuses. She'd thank the saints proper this time—remember all their names, light a candle, maybe even drop a whole dollar in the collection plate.

Because Ben Solo was looking at her like she was the one to be worshipped.

Not in the cheap, corny way either.
No, his gaze was steady—dark, reverent, almost like he was afraid to touch her too fast, too soon.

And still, she couldn't stop the thought as it bloomed, wild and warm through her chest:

Dear God... what if he kissed me now?

He found she tasted faintly of cherries—figures—with a hint of mint and something else entirely her, something wild and sweet and sharp that made him growl low in his throat.

Without thinking, Ben lifted her onto the counter like she weighed nothing—because she did feel like nothing in his arms, all soft limbs and flushed skin and those wide, stunned eyes. That sundress of hers clung in all the right ways, made him curse under his breath as his hands roamed with greedy reverence.

His mouth found hers again, tongue pushing past her lips, tasting her like a man starved. She fought him for half a second—like she didn't know how not to—but when he took control, when he deepened the kiss and claimed her properly, she melted. Right into him. Breath hitching. Chest pressed against his. Arms winding tight around his neck like she needed him to breathe.

Fuck.

Fuck.

Fuuuuck.

In the best, worst, most glorious way possible.

⸻

Oh my God...

Rey's breath hitched as Ben's hands pushed beneath her sundress, rough fingertips dragging up the bare length of her thighs. She trembled—just enough for him to notice. His mouth was at her neck, hot and damp, teeth grazing skin before sucking softly beneath her ear. She gasped, hips twitching as her hands gripped his shoulders, fingernails digging in through the thin fabric of his shirt.

And then—

Holy hell.

His fingers, blunt and sure, pressed right against the heat of her through her panties—cotton, plain, bought in a five-pack. She barely had time to feel embarrassed before he tore through the waistband like it was nothing.

She didn't care. Not when his touch made her legs weak and her mind haze. Her head tipped back, lips parted.

"Fuck," Ben muttered, voice gravel and hunger. "You're so wet for me already..."

Rey whimpered—an honest-to-God whimper—and that only spurred him on.

His mouth brushed her jaw. "You gonna fall apart just from my fingers, baby?"

Her answer was a breathless moan, her body already arching into his hand.

He groaned, fingers moving with slow precision. "You feel so good," he rasped, his voice filth and reverence all at once. "So fuckin' tight and perfect—God, I could spend all night right here..."

⸻

Rey didn't even realize she was holding her breath until his mouth ghosted down her neck, her fingers tangled in his hair like they'd always belonged there. His hands—God, his hands—were on her thighs now, coaxing her knees further apart as he knelt in front of her like it was nothing. Like it was routine for someone like Ben Solo to drop to his knees for a girl like her.

Her sundress had bunched up around her hips, her panties already gone—ripped and discarded like they were never meant to be there. She should've been embarrassed. Ashamed, even. She wasn't. Not with the way he looked at her. Not with the way he breathed her in like her scent was something holy.

"Rey," he murmured, his voice low and thick with heat. "Gonna make you feel real good now, yeah?"

She didn't answer. She couldn't. Not when his mouth was already on her, soft at first, too soft—until her thighs trembled and her fingers tugged at his roots in a desperate plea for more. That was all it took. He groaned low against her—filthy, needy, like he needed this just as much as she did—and then he dove in.

His tongue moved with the kind of precision that made her eyes roll back. Deep, slow licks followed by quick, teasing flicks. Then a hard suck against her clit that made her hips jerk up off the counter. Her breath stuttered out, her thighs trying to close around his head, but his arms hooked around her legs, holding her open, anchoring her.

"Ben—" she whimpered, barely a sound. Her hands were gripping the edge of the counter now, knuckles white, body strung so tight she thought she might snap.

He pulled back just enough to murmur, "That's it, baby. Let me hear it. Let me taste you come."

Then he was back on her, harder now, tongue circling, flicking, sucking—every motion dialed in like he wanted to ruin her. Wanted her to fall apart for him.

And she did.

With a sharp gasp, her body trembled, thighs clenching, her voice breaking on his name like a prayer—"Ben—oh my god—Ben—"—as she came, dizzy and wrecked, her hand still buried in his hair like it was the only thing keeping her tethered to the earth.

He didn't move right away. Just slowed down gradually, pressing lazy kisses against her, dragging it out until she was shaking.

Only when she finally opened her eyes did he rise, slow and towering again, eyes dark, lips glistening.

He leaned in close, one hand bracing beside her head, and whispered with a smirk—

"You taste better than that cherry pie, sweetheart."

Chapter Text

Rey was still trembling when he pulled back just enough to let her come down. Her legs felt like air, her chest rising and falling in shallow bursts, but his hands were already there—steady, big, warm on her waist, guiding her gently like he knew she couldn't find her balance yet.

But this wasn't the end. God, not even close.

She looked up at him, lips parted, eyes dazed and glazed with the aftershocks still rippling through her. And the way he looked back... It wasn't just hunger. It was possession. Serious and raw and unflinching. A look that made her knees buckle all over again.

"You okay?" he asked lowly, voice still rough, his breath brushing her cheek.

She nodded, but her voice was caught somewhere in her throat.

His jaw ticked, then without another word, he turned her gently—deliberately—until she was facing the counter, her hands bracing against it as his body pressed flush to her back.

The soft fabric of her dress lifted slowly, reverently, his hands pushing it up until it was bunched around her waist. Her bare thighs trembled, flushed and warm against the cool air.

"You tell me if you want to stop," he murmured into her ear, that voice wrecking her all over again.

"I don't," Rey whispered, almost too fast, breath shaky. "I don't—please."

That was all it took.

He made a sound low in his throat, almost like a growl, as he undid his belt, the quiet clink somehow deafening. She felt him behind her, hot and heavy and already pressed against her, thick fabric no longer in the way.

One hand gripped her hip, fingers digging in just enough to anchor her, and then—

He pushed in.

Slow. Deep. Stretching her in a way that made her gasp and clutch the counter harder.

"Fuck," he hissed through gritted teeth, barely holding himself back. "You feel—Rey—fuck."

She couldn't breathe. Could barely think. He filled her so completely, like he belonged there, like he was made for this—for her.

He didn't move at first, just stayed there, buried inside her, letting them both adjust, his forehead resting against her shoulder, his fingers stroking down the length of her arm before wrapping around her wrist.

Then he pulled back—and thrust again. Harder this time.

Rey moaned. Loud. Wanton. She didn't care. She couldn't. She was gone.

Ben set a rhythm that had her shaking again, hips snapping against hers with a steady, hungry precision. The sound of skin on skin, their breath, the soft creak of the trailer as the storm outside began to fade into insignificance—nothing mattered except this.

Except him.

Except the way he kept murmuring in her ear—

"So tight, baby... So fuckin' good for me..."

"You feel that? That's me, sweetheart..."

"You're takin' me so well—look at you..."

Each thrust deeper, rougher, the hand on her hip now sliding down between her thighs, fingers finding her again, circling as he drove into her.

She sobbed—actually sobbed—from how good it felt. From how full she was. From how every single nerve in her body felt like it was on fire.

It didn't take long.

Not after earlier.

She came again, this time harder—blinding, back-arching, voice caught in her throat as her walls clenched around him.

And that's when he lost it.

"Fuck—Rey—I'm gonna—" He groaned, loud and unrestrained, his hips slamming into hers one last time as he spilled into her, holding her against him like he was scared she'd disappear.

They stayed like that for a moment, bodies trembling, the air hot and thick between them.

His forehead dropped to her shoulder again. "That," he panted, breathless, "was... holy shit."

Rey could only nod, half-laughing, half-crying, her voice a soft whisper of sound.

And then she smiled.

Because she was still standing. Still breathin'.

And Benjamin Solo had just wrecked her in the best possible way.

They didn't stop.

He'd meant to. Meant to slow down, catch his breath, maybe even leave before it got more complicated. But Rey had looked up at him with those flushed cheeks and bitten lips, and he'd lost every ounce of sense he'd ever had.

Now he was buried inside her again, hips flush to hers, the soft slap of skin against skin muffled by the creaking mattress and her breathy little moans. Her legs wrapped tight around his waist like she didn't want to let go. He wasn't sure he'd let her.

Her nails raked down his back again, and he groaned low in his throat. That sweet little body beneath him—it was like a drug. Soft, hot, perfect. She met every thrust with a gasp, her lips parting, her voice growing needier each time he sank back into her.

"Ben..." she whispered, barely audible. And fuck, the way she said his name—it undid him.

He pressed his forehead to hers, their breath mingling, both of them slick with sweat now. She was trembling, and he could tell she was trying not to—biting down on her lip like she didn't want him to know how much she felt it. But he knew. He felt it too.

Every time she clenched around him. Every time her hips stuttered up to meet his. Every time she whispered his name like it was the only word she knew.

They didn't make it to the bed again. Not really. After that first time—slow yet passionate—they couldn't stop. It was like something had snapped between them. The tension, the push and pull, the looks... all of it exploded into heat.

The couch. The wall beside the kitchen.

The goddamn floor.

Ben didn't care. He'd never felt this wild for anyone. Never needed someone like this. Not just sex—it was the way she gasped, the way she touched his face, the way she looked at him like she couldn't believe he was real.

By the time sunset painted the trailer in gold and rose, she was stretched out beneath him again, body shaking as he coaxed another climax from her with slow, deliberate rolls of his hips. Her moans had softened into whimpers. Her fingers curled around his wrist. Her thighs trembled against his sides.

And still, he didn't stop.

He wanted to feel her fall apart again. He wanted to give her everything. Slowly, rougher, deeper—whatever she asked without saying a word.

He held her gaze the whole time.

"Ben," she whispered again, voice broken, sweet, desperate.

"I got you," he murmured. "I've got you, baby..."

And he did.

All damn day.

⸻

It was probably close to 1 a.m.

Rey felt the soft, steady rhythm of Ben's breathing against her back—his snore low, just audible, his arm slung heavy around her waist like even in sleep he refused to let her go. She giggled quietly, trying not to wake him as she shifted inch by inch until she finally managed to peel herself from his grip.

Even in his sleep, he was possessive. It made something warm and stupid twist in her chest.

She tiptoed through the trailer, her bare feet cool against the floor, and splashed water onto her flushed cheeks. Her reflection stared back at her—hair wild, lips kiss-swollen, a faint red mark just beneath her collarbone. Holy shit, she thought, eyes wide as the memories washed over her like waves. That happened. That really happened.

A lot.

She covered her mouth to muffle another giggle.

She'd never—ever—thought her first time would feel like this. Good didn't even begin to cover it. It had been messy and intense, yes, but also... kind. Warm. Slow in the beginning, fast when she asked for more. His hands had learned her faster than her own. His mouth—God.

She blushed hard, biting her lip as she leaned against the sink.

And then she'd gone back for more. Again. And again.

She shook her head, smiling into her cup as she filled it from the tap and drank slowly. She didn't even care that the water tasted faintly metallic. Her body ached in places she didn't know could ache. But it was the good kind of ache—the kind that reminded her this wasn't a dream. This happened. He happened.

Him. Her. Them.

And she had no idea what it meant. No idea what would come next.

But tonight? She felt beautiful. She felt... wanted.

She felt his gaze in her bones, even asleep.

And she knew she'd never forget the way he whispered her name.

⸻

She stirred at the faint, unmistakable scent.

Coffee?

Her eyes blinked open fast, hand shooting to the space beside her—still warm. He was still there.

A relieved smile tugged at her lips before she even fully stood, tugging down the hem of her oversized tee as she padded quietly toward the tiny kitchen space. And there he was—Ben Solo, shirtless, hair a mess, towering over her little coffee machine like it had personally offended him.

He was muttering under his breath, brow furrowed, one hand gripping the side of the machine while the other hovered like he couldn't decide whether to threaten it or just walk away.

She stepped in just as he grunted, "Why the hell won't this thing—"

Rey leaned in and tapped the side of the machine—once, twice—before it let out a groggy buzz and began brewing with a wheeze.

Ben paused. Then slowly turned to look at her with a raised brow.

"Oh," she said sweetly, "it's a delicate creature. Needs coaxing."

He smirked. "Ah, so a touch of roughness gets the job done." He winked, voice low and still laced with sleep.

Her cheeks flushed deep as she stepped past him to grab mugs, and his hand—warm and unapologetic—tapped her bum on the way by.

She squeaked.

Ben just grinned behind her, sipping air like it was coffee, utterly unrepentant.

He took the mug with one hand, sipping slowly—deliberately—his eyes fixed on her over the rim. Dark, hungry. Lust wasn't new on him, but this look... this look had weight behind it.

Then he set the mug down.

"Hand me your phone, Rey."

She blinked, fingers fumbling slightly around the ceramic handle of her own cup. That was not what she expected. "Why?" she asked, a little too breathy, a little too quick.

Ben rolled his eyes, but not unkindly. "Just give it, will ya?"

There was a beat of silence. Rey stared at him. Then, almost embarrassed by how fast she obeyed, she reached for her cracked phone from the counter and handed it over. His fingers brushed hers when he took it—deliberate, slow. He didn't look away.

Didn't look away at all.

Rey felt her nerves rush back. Her stomach twisted just a little. She already had his number—why on Earth—

Ding.

A text?

Maybe Rose finally wanting that talk. Maybe Finn—wasn't it Wednesday? They usually went to the movies.

Ben handed her the phone back, his expression unreadable.

She glanced down. Froze.

A deposit.

$4,000.

Rey's mouth fell open. "Ben—"

He was quicker. "Zip it."

His voice wasn't sharp, but it cut clean through her words.

"It's not out of pity," he said firmly, stepping in a little closer. "I want to take care of you, okay?"

She looked up at him, blinking fast.

"This wasn't a one-night stand, baby." His voice dropped lower. "This is..."

He ran a hand through his already-mussed dark hair, his jaw tightening, lips tugging with the weight of something bigger than either of them.

"I don't know what this is yet," he muttered. "But I do know you're not going nowhere."

She didn't move. Couldn't.

He stepped closer, his hand brushing hers again, firmer this time.

"You hear me?"

Her voice caught. She nodded once, barely.

He let out a slow exhale. "Good."

Chapter Text

It was indescribable - one look from him, one brush of his hand over hers, and it was like the air shifted again. Heavy. Electric. Inevitable.

Rey barely remembered the way her back hit the mattress. Just that Ben was over her, around her, in her—all heat and control and need. His gaze burned into hers as he moved, slow and deep, like he needed her to feel it everywhere. And she did. God, she did.

Her eyes fluttered closed, her breath catching on a soft gasp as his name escaped her lips, broken and quiet. She didn't even notice the way her hands gripped his shoulders until he leaned down and kissed her—tenderly this time, like he was saying something he couldn't quite find the words for.

She was in heaven.

That was the only way to describe it.

Because what else could this be, this ache and sweetness all at once? This warmth inside her that felt almost too big for her chest?

She didn't believe in signs. Had long ago stopped believing in prayers that got answered. But lying there, with Ben's hand still trailing soft touches down her side, the sound of their mingled breath hanging between them like a secret, Rey felt it.

This—he—was something good. Something real.

And in that quiet, messy little trailer, with her body still humming and her heart just barely catching up, Rey swore she could feel something shift.

Like maybe—just maybe—this was God's way of making up for all the pain.

And damn, was she grateful. Soulfully, achingly grateful.

⸻

She was only trying to move his phone away.

That was it.

She was just trying to make him breakfast. Nothing fancy—eggs, maybe goat cheese if it hadn't gone bad. They'd already wasted half the day tangled up in bed, making loose plans to go somewhere. Ben had begged to send her another five grand, and she'd only had to give him a look for him to sigh dramatically and mumble, "Fine. I'll just buy you something expensive and shiny instead."

Rey had laughed. She'd laughed like she couldn't remember the last time she felt this full. This light.

Now he was napping, sprawled out on her mattress like a spoiled cat, one arm flung across the pillow where she'd been. The heat was starting to get to him—city boy through and through—but Rey felt fine. A little tired. A little floaty. She didn't know what all of this was, not really, but it was something.

That's why she didn't think twice about moving his phone out of the way—just a little, so the spatters from the pan wouldn't hit the screen. That was all.

But the screen lit up when she touched it. Just enough for her eyes to catch the previews.

A.S.
Where are you, Benjamin?

Another.

Seriously, pick up. I need answers.

Then:

Ma
Honey, are you okay? Please call me back. I want to talk about the situation with Phasma.

Her chest tightened.

Phasma...?

And then it came, like a nail in the coffin:

Phasma
Ben, baby, I know this looks bad but I'm sorry. We can think of something. Oh—and happy engagement to us, I guess 😘

The sizzle of the butter drowned out the sound of her breath catching in her throat.

She didn't blink. Didn't speak.

She just stared at the screen as something cracked—shattered—deep in her chest.

The tears came silently at first. Soft and slow. Then quicker.

One fell directly into the pan with a hiss.

And she stood there, spoon in hand, the scent of eggs thick in the air, while the man in her bed slept like he hadn't just ripped her open.

⸻

Ben stirred, brow furrowed as a low hum tickled his ears. The fridge? A soft sizzle followed. Was she making breakfast?

A lazy smile tugged at his lips.

She was so fucking sweet. So caring. So—

FUCK!

An icy cascade slammed into his chest, his neck, his face. Ben jolted upright with a growl, gasping like he'd just been baptized in hell. The sheet tangled around his waist as he scrambled to wipe the shock off his skin, heart thudding, eyes wild.

"Rey, w-what the—"

He stopped cold.

She was standing across from him. Barefoot. In her threadbare sleep shorts and oversized tee. Her dark hair was messy. Her face...

Shattered.

In her trembling hands she held what looked like an old glass mixing bowl, maybe one of the ones she kept in the fridge for leftovers. It was nearly empty now—just a few ice cubes rattling at the bottom like bones in a cup.

Her eyes were wide, glassy. And her voice, when it came, wasn't angry.

It was broken.

"You're engaged."

Ben's stomach dropped through the floor.

Her voice—it wasn't even accusatory. It was soft. Too soft.

Worse than a slap. Worse than screaming. It was the kind of softness you only ever heard from someone trying not to fall apart. Trying not to cry in front of the person who ruined them.

He opened his mouth—nothing came out.

Because he didn't even know where the fuck to start.

⸻

Rey didn't want to cry.

She wouldn't cry.

Her lungs burned like she'd just run a damn marathon barefoot across asphalt, and she gripped the glass bowl so tightly her knuckles whitened. She set it aside carefully, too carefully, like if she made even one sudden movement, the entire universe might implode right there in her trailer.

He was naked.

She realized it with a sick twist in her stomach—sheets pooled low, his bare chest rising with confused, heavy breaths, hair tousled, lips still kiss-bitten from her. God.

She spun, yanked his damn pants off the floor, and threw them at him.

"You're fucking engaged, Solo." The words shot out of her like a bullet—sharp, venomous. Her voice cracked like glass. "Engaged."

And still he just sat there. Soaked. Silent.

God, she was such a fucking idiot. Naïve. Stupid. A walking cliché.

She'd known him for two days. Two. Days.

She'd let him eat her food. Sleep in her bed. Stay in her home. In her world.

She'd let him—

Rey's breath caught, her face flushed not with embarrassment but with fury as memories of the night crashed into her in vivid, unforgiving color. The things he'd done. The things they'd done.

The way he'd touched her. Kissed her. Worshipped her like she was something holy and now—

Now this?

She was a virgin.

She wasn't even sure if he'd known. She'd meant to tell him—she was going to—God, she was right there on the edge of saying it but then his hands had been everywhere and it had felt so good, better than she imagined. His roughness. His warmth. That low, filthy way he spoke into her ear like he meant every word.

For half a second—just a flash—her mind gave her the image of that old revolver Rose's mom had given her on her seventeenth birthday. "For safety," she'd said. Rey knew it wasn't good, not healthy, not reasonable, but the thought came anyway. Hot and fast and blinding like rage usually does.

She blinked it away.

She felt her fists curl at her sides.

"You lied to me, Ben," she whispered, more to herself than him. "You're engaged."

The cold water clung to his skin, dripping in fat trails down his spine as he fought with his jeans—damn fabric twisting at the ankle, making him stumble like some naked idiot in a nightmare. But it wasn't a nightmare. It was worse. Rey was standing across from him, soaked in betrayal, holding that cracked little bowl like it had been a weapon. Maybe it was.

"You're engaged," she said again. Her voice broke on the word, quieter now, like it hurt to say out loud.

He froze, one pant leg halfway on, breathing hard. "Rey, just—please. Just listen, okay?"

She didn't move. Didn't blink. Her fingers were trembling at her sides.

"I am engaged," he forced the words out. His throat felt like it was closing, a hot, bitter knot forming behind his ribs. "But it's not what you think. It's not real. It's business. It's—fuck—it's control. My grandfather, Anakin Skywalker, owns the company. The whole goddamn empire. He wants to merge two bloodlines, secure the future. It's politics, Rey. Image. Leverage."

Her lip curled. "So you're using her."

His breath hitched. "No. I mean—yes, but she's using me too. It's not love, Rey. We barely speak. I haven't seen her in weeks."

"But you're still gonna marry her," she said flatly.

His silence answered for him.

She laughed—cold and hollow. "Wow."

Ben stepped forward, hands out like he could fix this by reaching for her. "I was never gonna leave you, okay? I was gonna take you with me. I still will. You don't get it, Rey. I can't let go of you. I'm not going to. I'll set you up in California, hell, you can live with me. Work with me. We'll figure it out—"

"As what?" Her eyes were wide now, wet and furious. "Your assistant-slash-secret girlfriend while you play house with someone else?"

His jaw clenched. "Yes. If that's what it takes. Because I'm not giving you up."

She stared at him, stunned. Disgusted.

"You've known me for two days," she whispered.

"I know I need you," he said, voice breaking. "I know what this feels like. Don't act like you don't feel it too."

Her gaze dropped for just a second—and that was all he needed. He moved closer, slower now, more careful. His hand reached for the hem of her shirt, brushing it like a question.

"We don't have to stop, Rey," he murmured. "What we had... it wasn't just sex. You know that. You feel that. Don't you?"

She didn't pull away.

But she didn't lean in either.

And that silence? That pause?

It felt like a hundred knives in his gut.

Chapter Text

She felt like there were rocks in her throat. Small, jagged ones scraping every time she tried to swallow. Her voice came out flat, but steady. Too steady.

“So what—you want a wife and a plaything?”

Ben scoffed. That infuriating smirk danced across his lips like she was being dramatic, like she hadn't just caught a match to her own damn heart.

"Would you stop with the melodramatics?" he muttered, dragging his shirt over his broad chest, shaking the water from his hair. "I want you. Full stop. Let's just—cool off. Go grab a bite. We can talk it through over dinner."

Talk it through?

Talk it through?

Her chest burned. Her skin stung. Her goddamn soul felt like it was trying to claw its way out of her body. And he wanted to talk it through over dinner?

Her laugh cracked like a whip—cold, sharp, bitter. "Oh, talk?" she repeated, her voice laced with disbelief and fury. "Alright, Solo. Let's talk. Let's really talk."

He turned back toward her, halfway through buttoning his shirt.

"If I'm gonna be your whore—" she watched his jaw clench, eyes flare, but she didn't stop "—then I need to know what the benefits are for the position."

"Rey—"

"No. Don't 'Rey' me." Her accent was thick now, every syllable laced with rage and raw hurt. "Do I get a stipend? Weekly payout? Maybe a shiny little card with your name on it so I can shop while you're busy putting a ring on someone else?"

His face darkened.

"Hell," she continued, her voice rising, hands gesturing wildly now, "you gonna toss me in your grandpappy's retirement fund too, baby boy? You gonna make sure your side piece gets dental?"

"That's not what this is!" he snapped, voice finally cracking.

She stared at him, breathing hard. "Then what is it, Ben?"

But he didn't answer.

He just stood there—dripping, angry, ashamed—and looking more beautiful than anything had the right to be in a moment like this.

And she hated him for it.

⸻

She was so fucking infuriating like this. All fire and bite and heartbreak poured into every word. Yeah—this shit was bad. Really bad. But goddammit, could she try to see it from his side? Just for one second?

He felt his voice rising as he stepped closer, anger blooming hot in his chest.

"Rey. Enough. I want you. That's what the fuck this is—"

"Right. You want me to keep my legs spread like a good slut while you wine and dine your fiancée?"

Her voice sliced through the air like a goddamn whip.

He stopped. His entire body coiled tight, jaw clenched so hard he swore his teeth might crack. A low snarl twisted from his throat, and his fists curled at his sides as he forced his eyes shut. Fuck.

He inhaled once. Twice.

Then, low and tight: "Rey..."

His voice was bordering dangerous. Not because he was mad at her. But because she got to him—made his blood run too fast and his chest too full.

"I want you to stop talking about yourself like that," he gritted out, eyes flicking open again, now dark and hard. "Immediately. That is not what this is."

She looked like she wanted to spit fire again, but he cut the next explosion short by stepping in, grabbing her arm—firm but careful. Her skin was hot under his palm. So fucking alive.

"We're talking. Now. Let's go."

But she didn't move.

And her eyes—wide, hurt, burning—weren't done yet.

⸻

That revolver flashed through her mind again—quick, hot, wrong. Just a flicker. But it was there.

She twisted in his grasp. Tried to. Ben Solo had a grip, like he didn't even realize he was doing it. Like letting go wasn't even an option in his world.

She looked up at him slowly, lips curling into a smile—all teeth and not one ounce of sweetness.

"I'mma tell you kindly to take your grubby hands off me," she said, drawl thick now, rising with every word, "before your smile starts lookin' like one of them New York taxis—black and white, checkerboard and all. Some teeth there. Some teeth gone."

His jaw flexed. Her words hit.

"Rey..." he warned, stepping closer like he hadn't just been threatened.

"Get your fuckin' hands off me, Solo," she snapped again. "I'm serious."

He let go. Slow. Reluctant. Like it physically hurt him to do it.

"Get out," she said flatly.

"No."

She blinked. Laughed. It was a sharp, angry sound—closer to a bark than anything close to joy.

"Oh, you're really gonna go that route?" she said, already turning toward the trailer door. She flung it open with a flourish. "There. Open road. Big sky. Go cry to your fiancée."

He didn't flinch. Just walked forward and slammed the door shut again like it was made of cardboard. The whole trailer shuddered.

"You'll break my fuckin' door, Solo."

"I don't care."

"Well, you should," she hissed. "'Cause this ain't your bed. Not your trailer. Not your girl."

"You are coming with me," he growled.

She laughed again—mocking this time, leaning into every syllable like a punch.

"You got a better chance of lassoin' a tornado blindfolded than me getting in that damn Mercedes with your lying ass behind the wheel."

"Rey—"

"Get. OUT."

And this time, she didn't yell it. Didn't snarl.

She just said it.

Final. Cold. Like steel sliding into a sheath.

⸻

Ben felt like punching something. Repeatedly. The couch, the floor, the fucking wall—it didn't matter. He needed to break something.

Instead, he just stood there, breathing heavy, his voice ragged and strained when it finally came out.

"Rey... I really need you to think clearly on this."

God. He sounded like his grandfather. His fucking grandfather. It made his skin crawl.

He ran a hand down his face. Tried again.

"You and I..." he started, then trailed off, shaking his head.

This was coming out all wrong. Everything was wrong.

"You're coming with me. You'll live with me. I'll get you into that Engineering program—"

He saw it. The second her face changed. Like he'd slapped her.

Her eyes went wide. Then narrow.

"Oh my God," she said, backing up like he'd suddenly grown fangs. "You're manipulating my dream now?"

"What? No—"

"You holding it over my head now, Solo? So I'll agree to be your slut with a side of calculus?"

"Fuck, Rey, that's not what I meant!"

She scoffed, furious, eyes wet but blazing. "So what did you mean, huh? Enlighten me, prince of the goddamn city."

Ben stepped forward, something snapping in his chest. "I meant I can help you! I want to help you!"

"Help me?" she shouted. "You mean own me!"

"I mean give you a life!" he roared.

"A life you choose. Where I live in a fucking gilded cage and smile pretty while you play engagement photos and champagne brunch with your fiancée!"

Ben threw his arms up. "Jesus Christ, Rey! You'd rather rot in this goddamn trailer for the rest of your life?!"

She glared, chin trembling. "Better that than be your shameful little secret."

He laughed once—bitter, breathless. "You wanna talk about shame? You'd rather hide out here in the middle of fucking nowhere, pretending the world owes you something—"

"I work my ass off!"

"I KNOW YOU DO!" he screamed, voice cracking. "That's why I want you with me. Where I can protect you. Provide for you. You deserve more than this and you know it!"

She didn't speak. Just stood there, arms crossed over her chest like a shield.

And that's when it hit him. The final, ugly truth boiling out of his mouth before he could stop it.

"And you know what else? Better my whore than living and dying in this goddamn trailer, Rey!"

Silence.

It dropped like a blade between them.

His chest heaved. His hands were shaking. He wasn't even angry anymore—he was breaking.

"You're nothing out there without my help," he said, voice hoarse now, desperate. "And I want to help you. I want you with me."

He slammed a fist against his chest like it might force the words to come out right.

"I want YOU."

But she didn't flinch. Didn't cry.

She just looked at him like he was already gone.

And maybe he was.

⸻

She didn't even think—just dropped to the floor, pulled open the cupboard under the sink, and reached for the revolver.

Cold. Heavy. Not loaded, but it didn't matter. Her hand shook anyway.

"Get out of my fucking trailer, Solo," she said, voice ragged, trembling. "Get out of my life. Forget this ever happened."

He just scoffed, stepping closer like she'd held up a spatula instead of a damn gun.

"You don't mean that, baby—"

"Yes," she snapped. "I do."

He took another step forward, and she raised the revolver higher.

"Get out before I start shootin'."

He laughed.

"Shootin' what, sweetheart?" he drawled, thick with mockery. "That thing's not even loaded. You think I don't know what an empty threat looks like?"

Her hand tightened.

"Then I'll smack your dumb head with it till it knocks the ego clean out of you."

He tilted his head, sneering. "Go ahead. Afterward we can finally talk it out under ER fluorescents, maybe get a couples therapist to swing by."

Her breath caught. A sob pushed its way up her throat.

"Goddamn it," she whispered, her voice cracking. "Why couldn't you just be honest, Ben?"

He stilled. And for one second, his eyes flickered—like he felt it. Like it hit.

But then he hardened again. Cold and furious and spiteful.

"Oh, give me a break," he snapped. "You act like I owe you something. We fucked for a day and a half, Rey. You're not my wife."

She flinched like he slapped her.

"I am going give you something better than this dump," he kept going, spitting every word like it tasted bitter in his mouth. "A way out. And you wanna throw it in my face because you want it to come with some fairy tale and no cost. Grow up."

"Fuck you," she spat.

He stepped closer, eyes glinting.

"Darling, you already bent over for me."

Her face burned—fury or shame, she wasn't sure.

Chapter Text

And still he didn't stop.

"You think anyone else is gonna give a damn about a girl like you? No one's coming to save you out here. You'll live, you'll die, and this trailer'll still be here with its leaky roof and your damn dollar store coffee."

Her heart cracked. She could feel it—an actual, physical ache in her chest.

“Let me spell it out for you,” he bit out, voice a dark rasp. “I’d rather keep you in my bed in California than watch you rot here pretending you ever belonged to anyone else but me.”

She didn't even cry this time.

She just looked at him. Eyes hollow. Hands still wrapped around the empty revolver.

"Get. Out."

Ben's hand clenched at his side, his jaw ticking.

But he didn't leave.

Instead, he stalked forward again, his breath hot and ragged like it took effort not to snap in half.

"You're making this harder than it has to be," he bit out. "Just fucking come with me, Rey."

She shook her head, eyes wild.

"Get out—"

"I'll take care of you. You'll be mine. You won't want for anything. You'll just... obey."

"Obey?" she choked.

He stepped closer again, backing her into the counter. The revolver lowered slightly—not because she trusted him, but because rage was bubbling harder than fear now.

His mouth twisted into something between a sneer and a smirk.

"You reacted pretty well to the term last night, if I remember correctly," he said, voice dropping like a dark chord in her stomach. "Sweet little good girl, moaning in my ear like you wanted a collar—"

Rey snarled, shoving his chest hard with both hands.

He stumbled a step back. Then laughed—cruel and low.

"There she is," he taunted. "There's the little redneck firecracker. You think you scare me? You think any of this matters? Because it doesn't. Not to the world. Not to anyone but me. And I'm still here, aren't I?"

"I never asked you to stay!" she screamed.

"No. You just spread your legs and clung on."

Rey felt something in her snap.

She stepped forward, voice low but shaking with fury. "You are so fucking broken, Ben Solo. You think dominance is love, and manipulation is kindness. You don't know what being wanted actually feels like, so you take what you can control. You buy it. But it's not love. And it's not me."

He blinked. And for a breath—just one—he looked lost.

Then he scowled, truly venomous now, and hissed, "You don't know what the fuck you're talking about."

"I know you'll never be more than a lonely, angry little boy who thinks the world owes him something," she whispered, eyes like steel. "And I know I'd rather rot in this trailer than be your pet."

That was it.

The last straw.

He growled—a sound so guttural it made her flinch—and turned on his heel, grabbing the door so violently the hinges creaked as he threw it open.

"Fuck you, Rey," he snapped without looking back, his voice thick, hoarse, wrecked. "You had me. And you threw me away."

The trailer door slammed behind him.

Silence.

Just the wind, and her shaky breathing, and the faint metallic weight of a revolver still clutched in her hand.

Rey crumpled.

Her knees hit the floor, but she barely felt the sting. Not with the way her chest had split open—like something vital had been ripped straight out. She clutched her ribs, pressing hard, like that might keep her heart from leaking out too.

Outside, the Mercedes engine growled. Tires screamed. He was gone.

But the damage stayed.

She couldn't breathe.

A sob forced its way up. Then another. Then more, until she was choking on the sound, the shame, the rawness of it all. Her throat burned. Her chest ached. And still, it wouldn't stop.

She'd cried before. Quietly. Into her pillow. Into her sleeve. She'd sniffled her way through school nights and foster fights and birthdays with grocery-store cupcakes.

But not like this.

Never like this.

Not even when she was fifteen.

Not even when she lost Carla.

Carla had been... everything. The one who made her feel like she belonged somewhere. Who'd bought her a toothbrush with her name on it. Who let her stay up to finish her shop projects and told her she had the kind of brain that could take things apart and put them back better.

"You've got the hands of a mechanic and the heart of a builder," Carla had said once, grinning as she handed Rey her first socket wrench.

And then—just like that—gone.

A rainy night. A grocery run. A car that didn't stop in time.

Rey never even saw the body. Just packed her bag, moved again.

That was the year she met Finn and Rose.

Kind people. Sweet, in their way.

Finn and his big, generous family always making sure she had extra food at church dinners. Rose and her mom—both all fire and love and folded laundry—nurses, or soon-to-be. They were funny, sharp, warm. Genuinely good.

But Rey was the foster kid. The one who didn't have a mom to wave her in from the porch. The one who'd get quietly pitied when the casseroles were handed out. They never made her feel small, not on purpose. But sometimes the kindness stung worse than cruelty.

They'd never understand. Not really.

Not what it meant to always be half-packed.

Not what it felt like to watch every goodbye come before the hello had even settled.

And now this.

Ben Solo had felt different. He'd looked at her like she was his—not a charity case, not some sad story. He made her feel wanted. Claimed.

And now she was on the floor, shaking, gasping, trying to glue herself back together again.

Stupid, stupid girl.

How many times does it take, Rey? How many?

She'd known better.

People always left.

Even the ones who swore they wouldn't.

⸻

Ben's jaw ached from how hard he was clenching it.

The road ahead blurred as he pressed harder on the accelerator, the Mercedes growling like it shared his mood. He didn't know where the fuck he was going—just that he had to move. Had to do something or he'd turn around and say even worse shit than what had already flown out of his mouth.

He slammed his palm against the steering wheel so hard it echoed.

"Fuck!"

Why couldn't she just listen?

Why did she have to twist it, take the worst interpretation of every goddamn thing he said? As if he didn't care. As if he hadn't chosen her in the middle of the worst goddamn mess of his life. As if he wasn't offering her the world the only way he knew how.

His hand came down on the dashboard again—once, twice—until the sharp pain in his knuckles jolted through his wrist.

He sucked in a breath through his teeth, then sagged back against the seat, blinking hard. He was burning from the inside out. His entire body buzzing like his nerves were short-circuiting.

The phrase echoed in his skull.

"So what if you'd be my whore—"

Ben's eyes shut, hard. He winced.

Jesus. Fucking. Christ.

He hadn't meant it. Not like that. It came out wrong—angry, loud, awful—but Rey, she never gave him the damn space to explain. So quick to cry and push and run like he hadn't just fallen headfirst into something he didn't know how to name yet.

"Better my whore in California than a nobody in this fucking town."

"Fucking idiot," he muttered to himself, slamming the heel of his hand against the window this time.

She didn't get it.

He was trying. Trying to bring her in, trying to make space for her in a world that didn't have space for people like her. He didn't want her stuck in that trailer. He didn't want her crying over stove eggs and hoping someone would throw her a bone.

He wanted her with him. But all she heard was control. Ownership. Dirt.

Ben rubbed a hand over his face, breathing hard.

His phone buzzed. Again.

This time, he let it ring. But it buzzed again—then again, persistent.

Finally, he picked up.

"Ben Solo," came Poe's voice, dry as ever. "Tire marks, a broken gate, and complete silence for almost 48 hours. What the fuck kind of vacation is this?"

Ben exhaled, slow and tired. "Not now, Poe."

"Now, actually," Poe shot back. "Your grandfather's about to start a congressional hearing just to figure out where the hell you are. You missed three board meetings, Ben. Three. And I've had to lie so many times I'm starting to believe I'm actually you."

Ben didn't answer.

Poe paused. "...You good?"

He stared out at the fields speeding past his window. Jaw clenched. Mind racing.

"I just needed to...get out," Ben said finally, voice low. "Take some space. Think."

"Think?" Poe laughed bitterly. "You? You've never thought a day in your damn life."

Ben didn't laugh. Didn't blink.

"I mean it," he said. "I'm sorting something out. Something personal."

Poe must've caught the shift in tone. He backed off—just a little.

"Okay," he said. "Fine. You want space, take it. But not for long, Ben. We're talking hours, not days. You disappear like this and Phasma's dad starts sniffing. You know the kind of pressure your grandfather's under right now."

Ben stayed silent.

"You gonna come back or do I have to show up wherever the hell you are and drag you back here by your pretty dark curls?"

Ben smiled humorlessly. "Don't test me Poe, not right now."

"Fine," Poe muttered. "But try and get some sense before shit blows up."

Ben didn't reply.

He just ended the call, dropped the phone back on the seat, and kept driving.

Because for all his anger—for all the fire still roaring in his chest—he couldn't stop seeing the look in Rey's eyes. Not the fury. Not the heartbreak.

The betrayal.

And maybe—just maybe—that's what scared him the most.

Chapter Text

She hadn't moved from the floor.

The gun lay a few feet away, forgotten. Her knees were drawn to her chest, arms curled tightly around them as her chin trembled. The tears had long since stopped flowing—now her body just shuddered. Silent, aching convulsions. The kind that wracked your soul when there was nothing left to scream.

She had loved him.
God, she had loved him.

And she'd thought—maybe, just maybe—he loved her too.

But all of it, all of it, had meant something different to him.
She was naïve. So stupid. A good time in a shitty little trailer. A secret he could tuck away.

And now he was gone.
⸻

He hadn't even turned the music on.

His jaw clenched so tightly it ached. The Mercedes roared under him, the speedometer flirting with numbers it had no business reaching. Every time he blinked, he saw her—wild-eyed, shaking, that damn gun in her hands.

What the fuck had he done?

"Better my—"
He slammed his fist against the steering wheel so hard it made his knuckles scream.
He couldn't even say the sentence again. He winced at the memory. God, what the hell was wrong with him?
⸻

She curled tighter.

The little gap in her chest pulsed like a phantom limb. She thought of Carla—of walking into the apartment after school, her arms full of donated groceries, only to find the car crash voicemail flashing. Fifteen years old.
Alone again.

Then Finn. Then Rose. Their kindness, their warmth. It had kept her alive.
But no one—not even them—had ever made her feel what Ben Solo did.
And now she'd lost him too.
⸻

The headlights ahead blurred. His throat was dry, chest heaving as he pulled over. His eyes burned—not from the road.

From her.

From what he said.

From how she looked at him.

Like she'd loved him.
Like he'd broken something holy.

"Fuck," he whispered into the silence, his hands gripping the wheel like it could keep him from unraveling.

Then, quietly:
"...I have to go back."
⸻

She stirred.

For a moment, she thought she'd imagined it—the faint hope rising in her ribs.
What if he came back?
What if he—

"No." Her voice cracked. "Don't you dare be that girl, Rey."

She stood up slowly, forcing herself to breathe, to move.
She wasn't the girl who waited around.

Even if her heart had been left at the bottom of his coffee mug.
⸻

He made the turn.

The roads were mostly empty—just one car passing at the intersection too fast.

He didn't even see the lights until they were on top of him.

CRASH.

It wasn't dramatic. No explosion. Just screeching tires, the sharp crunch of metal, and the sickening jolt of flesh meeting impact.

Ben's body lurched forward, his forehead cracking the airbag just as it deployed. Pain sliced across his jaw and nose—hot and fast. He blinked, disoriented, blood smearing into his vision.

A shadow moved outside the shattered glass. A voice—panicked, male—called out:
"Shit! Jesus! Somebody call an ambulance!"

Ben tried to lift his hand, his lips dry.

"R... Rey," he rasped.

Then the world tilted sideways, and everything went dark.
⸻

Rey awoke with a shudder, her chest squeezing tight around a heart that still ached too much to be ignored. She blinked at the ceiling, blurry-eyed, willing herself not to cry again.

He hadn't come back.
He hadn't fucking come back.

A sharp sob escaped before she could stop it. She groaned and sat up fast, dragging the heel of her hand across her cheek like she could rub the pain out of her skin.
"Stop it right now, you dumb... dumb girl," she muttered harshly.

Because that's what she was.
Nineteen. Three months away from her birthday.
A high school diploma, half her college credits, and a head full of romantic delusions she should've grown out of by fourteen.

She reached for her phone out of habit. The contact was gone—deleted.
But the money had stayed.

Five thousand fucking dollars.

Rey stared at the transfer like it might crawl off the screen. "Fucking liar," she whispered. "Manipulator." But her thumb hovered a little too long. Her jaw clenched.

Because, damn it... part of her had felt so happy when he'd done that. When he'd said all those things—This is not pity, Rey.

And then—This is real.

Her chest clenched all over again. She tossed the phone aside and flopped back down on the bed, face buried into the pillow.
Damn it. It still smelled like him.

Leather. Aftershave. Trouble.

She let out a muffled scream and punched the pillow. Once. Twice. A feather floated up and drifted down like the universe mocking her.

"Four thousand," she muttered bitterly. "No. Five."
The "tip," she'd almost forgotten.

"How generous, Solo," she sneered.
Then her face crumpled again.

She almost sobbed. Almost.

"Stop it right now!" she snapped aloud, sitting bolt upright and glaring at the sliver of sunlight peeking through the crooked blinds. Her voice cracked, her fists clenched around the sheets. "Get a fucking grip."

And so she did what she'd always done—bit her lip, swallowed the pain, and got up.

Because the world wasn't going to stop for her broken heart.

The two weeks that followed—Rey buried herself in work.

Plutt's shitty diner hadn't changed a bit, still reeking of grease, old coffee, and broken dreams. She threw herself into double shifts, wiped down every counter like it'd personally offended her, and studied at night until her eyes felt like sandpaper.

And she tried. God, she tried not to touch the money. The five thousand dollars sat in her account like a phantom limb. She pretended it wasn't there. Because she knew—fuck, she knew—how broken she'd feel the second it was gone.

As long as it stayed, it still happened.

It still meant something.

She knew how it sounded. Pathetic. Delusional. Like some lovesick idiot waiting by the phone. But for her?
It made sense.
Sort of.

She sighed, her head pounding faintly from lack of sleep, as she scrubbed down another counter. Her mind had drifted again—back to that goddamn smile, those dark eyes, that filthy mouth that made her toes curl and her stomach twist—

"Rey-rey!"

Rey jumped, nearly dropping the spray bottle. Two warm arms wrapped around her from behind in a familiar hug.

"I missed you! Why didn't you come by last Friday? Mom made pot roast!"

Rose.

Rey smiled—at least, tried to. She leaned back into the embrace for just a second before pulling away and setting the bottle down.

"Sorry," she said, wiping her hands on her apron. "I've just been... trying to save up."

Rose tilted her head, suspicious but gentle. "Save up for what?"

Rey opened her mouth.
Then closed it.

She could almost hear her inner voice, cruel and sharp: For what, Rey? What are you saving for? The guy who left you bleeding? The degree you still haven't picked? A better life you still don't know how to live?

Her throat tightened. She blinked a few times and looked away.

"I dunno. Something."

Rose didn't press. She was good that way.

Just gave her a small smile, reached for a napkin, and said, "Well. I brought pie."

Rose and Rey sat tucked into the back of the diner, at a cracked vinyl booth that had long since lost its shine. The late-afternoon lull gave them a rare slice of peace. Rose had pulled two paper cups of soda from the machine and laid down a crinkled brown paper bag with two fat wedges of pie inside.

Rose dug in cheerfully, her fork stabbing through the crust like it had personally wronged her. "So there's this nursing program," she was saying between bites, "in California. It's like... the program. I've been looking at it for weeks now, and I think I'm gonna do it. Maybe." She chewed, then added with a dramatic sigh, "If Dad helps out. And Mom too. I mean, she'll probably sell a kidney if she has to—crazy woman."

Rey smiled faintly and nodded, but the word California landed like a rock in her stomach.

She swallowed a bite of pie, and it scratched its way down. Cherry.
She used to love cherry. Now it tasted like dirt.

Her fork hovered halfway to her mouth.

Rose suddenly tilted her head. "Rey?"

Rey blinked.

"I know you told me not to ask," Rose said softly, "but that guy at the store—when I saw you with him—"

"Rose, please don't." Her voice cracked harder than she meant it to.

But Rose only leaned in, gentle and unrelenting. "Just tell me he didn't hurt you. Okay? That's all I wanna know before I go full Mad Max on his ass."

Rey choked mid-bite and coughed into a napkin.

"No, Rose," she finally said hoarsely, wiping her mouth. "He... he didn't hurt me."

(Not physically...)

"Please," she whispered. "Let's just drop it."

Rose stared at her for a long second, worry lining her brow—but eventually she nodded. "Okay. But if that changes..." She tapped her fork like a warning. "You let me know. I'll make him wish he'd never set foot in this town."

Rey nodded again. But her hands were shaking slightly.

She didn't think she'd ever be able to eat cherry pie again.

Chapter Text

His head was fucking pounding.

Ben groaned, low and guttural, his mouth dry as ash and his eyes fluttering open just enough to be punished by the assault of sterile white light. He tried to lift his arm—tried—but it may as well have been buried under a pile of bricks. His body felt like it had been flattened, steamrolled, then thrown in a freezer just to make it worse.

And what the hell was all the beeping and booping?

"Where the fuck—?"

Then it hit him.
Hard.
Like the actual car that had come out of nowhere.

Rey.

A memory surged—her face, wet with tears, wild with fury, the way she'd shoved him back with that little firecracker strength of hers. Then the door. The smell of her hair. The way her hands had trembled around that empty revolver. His rage. His voice. The things he'd said—Christ, what the fuck had he said?

Then: the car. The blare of a horn. Glass exploding like firecrackers. A sickening crunch of metal and bone.

Ben winced, trying to breathe. His jaw ached like hell. Something on his face stung sharp and dull at the same time.

The door creaked. A voice called out faintly, distant through the cotton in his ears:
"Mr. Solo? You're awake?"

He didn't answer. Couldn't.

"You're awake?" the nurse repeated, softer this time, stepping closer.

Ben gave the faintest nod—

Big mistake.

A low, guttural groan slipped out as pain sliced through the side of his face and down his spine like a hot wire. His hand shot up instinctively toward his jaw, only to freeze mid-air—everything fucking hurt.

"Easy, easy," the nurse soothed, turning toward the doorway. "He's responsive."

Ben tried again, forcing his mouth to open, lips dry and barely moving.

"I—"

The door burst open.

"My baby!!" came the panicked, familiar shriek.

Leia. Her heels clicked furiously against the floor as she rushed to his side, tears already streaming, hands cupping his face so gently despite the wires and gauze. "Oh God, oh my sweet boy—Ben, you scared me to death—don't ever do that again—you hear me?"

She kissed his forehead, her voice shaking, and Ben blinked slowly at her, his throat closing with something he didn't dare name.

Then came the lower, rougher voice. "You're okay...thank God."
Han.

Not weepy like Leia, but shaken. Really shaken. His dad stood just behind her, hands in his jacket pockets like he didn't know what else to do with them. "Dumbass," he muttered—but there was no bite to it. Just relief.

And then came Luke—smiling, worried, eyes already assessing. Always the watchful one. He placed a hand on Ben's ankle through the sheets, as if grounding him.

"You scared the hell out of everyone, kid."

Poe hovered behind him, trying to hide his grin but failing miserably. "I mean, I told you to stop being dramatic, but this was a little overkill even for you."

Ben gave the smallest snort, and winced again.

But before he could say anything—before he could even think straight—

The room shifted.

A colder presence filled the air like a thundercloud rolling in.

"Everyone out," a new voice said. Sharp. Steady. The kind that didn't need to be raised to command attention.

Anakin Skywalker stepped into the room like he owned it.
Because, in a way, he did.

Silver hair slicked back, tailored black suit immaculate, not a speck of dust daring to touch him. His eyes locked onto Ben's—and for a moment, just a flicker, something...human crossed his face.

"Except for him," he added quietly, eyes narrowing as he stepped closer to the bed.

Ben's heart stuttered.

This...was going to be a very long day.
——————

Anakin Skywalker stepped closer.

His grandfather didn't speak right away. His hands were trembling slightly as he approached, the leather gloves clutched in one fist, undone. His usually stern expression had fractured—ever so slightly—around the eyes.

He reached out, carefully, and touched Ben's bandaged cheek.

Ben tensed.

Anakin's voice came quiet. Too quiet. "Benjamin... how do you feel?"

Ben swallowed. His throat burned, but he forced out the only answer he could manage.

"Like hell."

Anakin gave a weak laugh. "You look it."

He sat beside him, folding his gloves slowly. "The doctors said the impact missed your spine by two inches. You could've... well. It doesn't matter now."

Ben looked away.

There was too much in the air. Too many things unspoken.

Anakin leaned in. "You have to come home. There are meetings lined up. Statements to be made. Everyone's watching."

Ben scoffed, the sound low and gravelly—and immediately regretted it. Pain shot up the side of his face like someone had shoved a hot wire through his jaw. He winced hard, breath hissing between his teeth.

He really had to stop fucking doing that.

Anakin's eyes flickered with worry for all of half a second. Then it was gone—buried under the iron spine of a man who didn't let emotions linger too long.

"You are coming home," Anakin said again, firmer now, final. "Enough of the melodramatics, Benjamin. You don't have to marry Phasma immediately, but you will announce your engagement. After your face heals."

Ben blinked once, then rasped out a half-laugh, half-cough.

"Yeah," he muttered, voice dry. "The money maker."

Anakin didn't smile.

"Exactly."

Ben stared at the ceiling. The light buzzed faintly above him. He could already feel it—the leash tightening again. He wasn't even out of the hospital bed yet, and they were already pulling him back into the orbit. Back into the expectations. The legacy. The performance.

He exhaled slowly.
He really should've just stayed unconscious.
⸻

Rey groaned softly, slumping over her textbook as if sheer proximity might force the information into her head. It wasn't working. The formulas blurred. The diagrams wavered. Her vision kept doubling every time she tried to focus, and the pounding behind her eyes had only gotten worse since morning.

She scratched something out. Rewrote it. Erased again. Her fingers were trembling, her breath uneven. Her head was a mess—scatterbrained and static-heavy—and she knew why. Two weeks in and she still couldn't forget about—

Stop it.
Not now. Not here.
You're in class. Get your shit together.

The bell rang, saving her from another round of self-directed fury. She stood slowly, careful, but the room tilted just slightly to the left. She steadied herself with a hand on the desk, jaw tight. She was fine. Just tired. Just—

"Rey?"

She looked up to see Professor Kaydel waving her over. The woman was effortlessly polished—mid-forties, glowing skin, the kind of calm smile that could diffuse a bomb.

Rey blinked and made her way to the desk, still woozy.

"Big news," Kaydel said, almost vibrating with excitement. "A new scholarship program in California. It's part of New York Polytechnic's expansion initiative—they're opening a satellite division on the West Coast, and they've asked for top student nominations."

Rey tilted her head. The kind of nod that said great... and you're telling me this because...?

Kaydel didn't even pause. "I signed your name."

Rey's stomach dropped.

"What?" she whispered.

"Don't freak out," Kaydel said, grinning. "You got in."

Rey could barely blink.

"You—what?"

"The only thing you'll have to worry about is the student housing," Kaydel continued, unbothered by Rey's slack-jawed silence. "They'll cover tuition, books, travel. Everything. All you need is about two grand for your share of rent for next semester."

Rey's throat tightened. Her brain scrambled to form words, to argue, to understand—and then Kaydel handed her an envelope.

Heavy. Stuffed.

"I said don't freak out," Kaydel warned, raising a hand before Rey could speak. "That's five hundred in cash. It's not much, but it's something."

Rey opened her mouth again, tried to form a protest—

"Nope. No. Don't you dare," Kaydel said, folding her arms. "Rey, you've been in my class for over a year. I've seen how hard you work. How much you fight for everything. And I'm telling you—this is the universe throwing you a bone. So for the love of God..."

She leaned in, eyes warm and steady.

"Take it."

"Of course you're gonna take it!" Rose screamed, practically leaping onto the bed like she was on a trampoline.

Rey laughed breathlessly, now in Rose's bedroom, the familiar scent of vanilla lotion and laundry detergent wrapping around her like comfort. She couldn't stop smiling—still couldn't believe it. Rose had just gotten the news she was officially accepted into her nursing program in California, and Rey... Rey had gotten into her own program too. Despite never even signing herself up.

"I can't believe it," Rey said through a laugh as Rose tugged her up, bouncing with her. "We're actually going to—"

"Cali-freaking-forniaaa!" Rose sang, spinning dramatically.

Rey burst into laughter, her cheeks turning pink. "Rose! Your mom's gonna come in and tell us to stop acting like maniacs—"

"Oh, would you stop it and let yourself have some fun! We're leaving this dump behind, Rey. New lives! Sunshine! Boys!"

Rey's laugh was pure and unstoppable, her feet sinking into the soft mattress as they jumped like children—wild, free, and for a moment, without any weight pulling them down.

Then—knock knock.

The door opened, and Mrs. Tico stood in the doorway. Stern expression. Arms crossed. Eyebrows raised.

Both girls froze like toddlers caught red-handed.

But then—her face cracked. "My girls..." she said, voice wobbling with joy as she stepped inside.

And then she laughed—really laughed—and climbed up on the bed beside them, kicking off her shoes.

"My girls are going to Californiaaaaa!" she screamed, raising her arms, and the three of them screamed it again in harmony.

For the first time in what felt like forever, Rey felt something sharp and beautiful and terrifying all at once rise in her chest:

Hope.

Chapter Text

Mrs. Tico stood at the center of Rose's bedroom like a commanding officer.

"Underwear?"
"Check!"
"Socks?"
"Check!"
"Chargers, sunscreen, vitamins, passports?"
"Check, check, check—wait, do we need passports?"

"And tampons!" Mrs. Tico added firmly, eyes on her daughter. "Rose, you said your period was supposed to start the day before you leave. Bring extras."

"Mooom!" Rose groaned, throwing her head back. "Don't tell Rey you know when my freaking cycle starts!"

Rey let out a giggle, watching Rose begrudgingly shove a box of tampons into her duffel bag with theatrical horror.

But as she watched, something shifted—tampons.

Her smile faded.

Tampons.

Her brain, slow to catch up, started doing the math.

When was her last period?

A hum of unease began to bloom in her chest as she quietly stood and slipped into the bathroom. She splashed cold water on her face, hoping it would chase away the sudden spiraling thoughts.

Okay, she'd... she'd spotted last Sunday, right? A little. That was something. That counted. Maybe. Or maybe that was just stress? Right? Stress messed things up. And her periods had never been perfectly regular, especially not when she was younger—her doctor always blamed it on being underfed, underweight, under-everything.

But these last two years? They'd been fine. Predictable even. Five days. Day one hurt like hell. Day two was heavy. Then it mellowed out.

This wasn't that.

And after the spotting... nothing.

Rey tapped her fingers against the sink, her reflection pale and slowly panicking.

Maybe she was overthinking it. Maybe it was the stress. The move. School. Life.

Or maybe—fuck.

Her chest tightened. Her heart started pounding so loudly it echoed in her ears.

What if that asshole—what if he'd given her something? An STD? What if her body was reacting to him in some awful, irreversible way? What if she—

She couldn't not think about the other option.

What if she were pregnant?

She closed her eyes, pressing her palms hard against them, trying to will the thought out of her head. But it clawed its way back in, unrelenting.

She had to recall—she had to. As much as it made her stomach twist, as much as it made her want to curl into herself and scream. She winced, the memories crashing back. All the times they'd... for those two days they were practically one, only stopping to eat, to drink, and then right back at it. Like animals. Like something was chasing them.

She shook her head. Think, Rey.

That first time.

Her first time.

At the damn counter, the way he'd nudged her to turn around, bend for him, the way he'd bunched up her dress, kissed her neck like he craved her... that was the only time she'd felt it. Felt him. Spill inside her.

No.

No fucking way.

Her luck couldn't be that bad.

Could it?

After that, when they'd gone again and again, he'd pulled out. He'd finished on her back, her stomach—messy and hurried and hot—but not inside. That first time had been the only one. She was sure of it. Mostly.

Fuck him.

Why didn't he ask? Why didn't she say anything? What the hell was wrong with her? Why hadn't either of them stopped to think for even one second?

Because you were too far gone, that's why, her inner voice whispered. You didn't care. Not in that moment.

She clenched her fists.

No. She wasn't pregnant. She couldn't be.
This had to be something else. Had to.

She didn't wait.

She burst out of the bathroom, grabbed her bag and practically hauled Rose by the wrist down the stairs and out the door.

"Rey! Where are we—?!"
"I need the local gyno. Now."

They ran to catch the bus.
⸻

Rose stared at her, mouth falling open as the bus rumbled along.

"You let him... ahem... inside you?!" she hissed, scandalized.

Rey didn't answer with words. Just gave a slow, miserable nod. Her arms crossed over her chest as she tried to stop the heat crawling up her neck. Her hands were clammy. Her heart wouldn't slow.

God, she was so stupid.

First time, no protection, and with him of all people. Who knew what kind of diseases he had? What kind of partners he'd had? She didn't even ask—just let him touch her, ruin her, bury himself deep like she was nothing. Idiot. Idiot. Idiot.

Rose leaned forward, voice cracking. "I didn't mean it like that—I'm not judging, Rey, I swear—I just..." Her brows knit. "Rey. Tell me he didn't hurt you. Or force anything. Please. Or I swear to God—"

"No," Rey cut her off, her voice small but sharp. "He didn't. Okay? It was... mutual. Just really dumb. Like... blackout-level dumb. Please don't make me talk about it more."

Rose nodded slowly, clearly still uneasy. She gave Rey's hand a squeeze, her lips pressed in a thin line.

They rode in silence until the bus squeaked to a stop outside the small clinic.

Inside, it smelled like sanitizer and fake lemon. Everything too bright. Too clean. Rey was sweating more now—her mind racing through all the possible things he could've left her with. She didn't even want to Google it. Her stomach turned.

An older nurse named Betsy greeted them with a warm smile. "Ladies. You're here for a women's wellness check? Dr. Elman will be with you shortly."

Rose kissed Rey on the cheek and whispered, "I'll be right out here, 'kay?"

Rey gave a tight nod, her chest aching with dread.

And then she stepped inside.

Rey winced as the cold prongs touched her, her fingers digging into the thin paper sheet covering the exam table. "God, I hate this part," she muttered under her breath, squeezing her eyes shut.

Dr. Elman, calm and unhurried despite the exhaustion pinching the edges of her eyes, offered a small, understanding smile. "You and every other woman who walks through that door."

The rest of the exam went in silence, save for Rey mumbling answers—name, age, first period, regularity, yes I'm sexually active now, no I've never had this kind of exam before. Her voice trailed off when the last question came.

"Do you know if your partner has an STD?"

Rey shook her head, her throat dry. "N-no. I mean... he didn't say anything. But I—I'm late and I've felt like sh—horrible. These past two weeks."

Dr. Elman paused, then looked up. "Horrible how?"

Rey sighed, rubbing her forehead. "Headaches. Dizziness. My hands get all clammy sometimes. I'm tired all the time. And my period didn't come. I mean—I had a bit of spotting, but that was it. No cramps. No nausea or any of that stuff people say happens, so I know I'm not pregnant. I just..."

Her voice dropped.

"I just know I have something."

The words hung in the room, heavy and sour. Of course she did. Because why wouldn't she?

Dr. Elman sat back on her stool, expression unreadable. "All right. Well, let's not jump to conclusions yet. There are a number of things that could be going on—most of them treatable. Stress can mess with your body more than people think. But we'll run a full panel. STDs, bacterial infections, hormone levels—just to be sure."

Rey nodded slowly, staring at the ceiling as the doctor listed everything she'd be testing for. Words like chlamydia, trichomoniasis, bacterial vaginosis, HIV screening all floated in the air like ghosts, each one a little heavier than the last.

"Will it hurt?" Rey asked quietly.

Dr. Elman gave a soft snort. "Not as much as you're hurting yourself right now with worry. Let's get the tests done and see where we land. And Rey?"

She met the woman's gaze.

"You're not dirty. You're not broken. You're just scared. We'll figure it out."

Rey blinked fast and nodded.

She didn't believe her—but it was nice to hear anyway.

Chapter Text

Ben hated hospitals. The sterile air, the distant beeping, the echo of footsteps at night like ghosts pacing outside his room. The only upside was the painkillers. That and the fact his mother had smugly declared—after seeing the bandage on his face and the angry line of scar curling near his jaw—that it made him more charming.

"Real brooding prince vibes," Leia had said with a grin, brushing his hair back from his face. "Like your father in '82. Except you're taller."

He'd rolled his eyes but hadn't argued. Mostly because he couldn't, not without wincing. The stitches still pulled when he bit back sharp remarks—especially with Poe around.

That bastard had been circling his bed like a smug shark, cracking jokes and tossing grapes into his mouth like they were in some frat house instead of a medical ward. "You know," Poe had said just the day before, mouth full of apple slices, "you've been less of a dick lately. Maybe we should crash you into cars more often."

Ben had snarled, "Why don't I drive next time and make sure you're in the passenger seat."

Cue a smirk and a theatrical bow. "There he is."

But underneath all the noise, all the medical updates, all the scripted statements about the engagement they were carefully prepping to spin—it festered. She festered.

Rey.

He didn't want to think about her. Not about how she'd looked in the doorway, wild-eyed and wrecked. Not about the way she'd said Get out, like it physically hurt her to look at him. Not about the way her voice had cracked when she'd told him to forget this ever happened.
And definitely not about how he'd meant to make her angry, not destroy her.

"Fuck it," he muttered under his breath, running a hand through his hair, careful to avoid the healing scar.

It was a mistake. A stupid, reckless mistake. He regretted it.

Right?

Sure. Let's go with that.

Still... he was sore. Still angry. Still pissed that she'd made it so goddamn clear she wanted no part of him. She'd said no. Or, more like, fuck no. Not to the money. Not to the offer. But to him. The whole of him.

And yeah—maybe she was right to.

He sighed again, chest tightening as he leaned back against the pillow. It was better this way. Easier. Cleaner.

Phasma had already agreed to keep things civil. The engagement would move forward—publicly. They'd be a "team." A power couple. Friends with benefits, and if needed, benefits on the side.

She'd even shown him her roster. A literal goddamn list. Ben had stared at it, blinking.

"You're disgusting," he'd muttered.

Phasma had smiled without blinking. "I'm efficient."

He was still thinking about that as the nurse came in to change his bandage.

Still thinking about her.

He was starting to hate how hard it was not to.
—————

Rey scrubbed harder.

The stovetop was already clean—had been for a while now—but she couldn't stop. Couldn't sit. Couldn't think without spiraling.

Today was the week. The week she'd get the full panel results from the doctor. The one who'd looked at her over thin glasses and said with that annoying kind voice, "Just to be thorough, Rey, I ran a pregnancy test too."

She'd protested. Of course she had.

But she still found herself at the dollar store on the way home, yanking two boxes off the shelf and shoving them into her hoodie like she was committing a crime. She'd practically sprinted back to the trailer, knees shaking, heart hammering like she was about to defuse a bomb.

And both tests? Negative.

Of course they were. She wasn't pregnant.

Her hands trembled as she squeezed the sponge again, suds foaming and dripping down her wrist. The smell of off-brand lemon cleaner hit her nose too sharp.

It's okay, she reminded herself. It's fine. Remember what the doctor said—if it's anything, antibiotics can handle it.

But it didn't help. Not really. Because her brain wouldn't stop whispering ugly things. What if it's not just anything? What if it's something permanent? Something you can't wash away with pills and time?

"God damn you, Ben Solo," she muttered, biting the inside of her cheek.

"God only knows where the hell you've put your—"

She stopped herself, her jaw clenching as she scrubbed in tight, angry circles. The sponge squeaked.

She wasn't going to cry again. She was done crying.

Done being dumb. Done being reckless. Done letting the memory of his mouth, his voice, the way he looked at her like she was some precious thing get under her skin.

She wrung the sponge out with both hands like it might take the rage with it.

⸻

Ben hadn't thought about Rey in days.

At least, that's what he told himself.

He threw himself headfirst into everything his grandfather demanded—boardroom meetings, merger negotiations, painfully dull dinners with painfully dull men in painfully expensive suits. He didn't even roll his eyes when Anakin barked orders anymore. Didn't mouth off when Phasma showed up to "support him" during a Q&A at a youth entrepreneur summit like they were some power couple in training.

Fine. So what if it was all fake?

Fake was easier.

Fake didn't get under your skin. Fake didn't cry and smell like strawberry shampoo and cherries. Fake didn't say no to you when you were practically begging.

Ben signed paperwork with such aggression his assistants were switching out pens by the dozen. He slammed shut his laptop when Poe made a snide remark about his "dark cloud energy." He stopped drinking coffee because it reminded him of her. That stupid diner smell. That little laugh she tried to hide when he called her trailer girl.

Fuck.

It didn't help that he couldn't sleep.

Every night he lay there, the dull throb of his healing scar pulsing in time with his heartbeat, and the memory of her voice—furious, heartbroken—echoed in his skull.

By the time Friday rolled around, Ben had more or less stopped talking altogether unless it involved quarterly projections.

They were at a long, stupid dinner—his grandfather, Luke, Leia, Phasma, a few foreign investors, and of course, Ben himself. Silent. Bored. Picking at his filet like it offended him.

Luke was rambling about the university again. Something about expanding New York Polytechnical's partnerships into California.

"We're starting with a small pilot group," Luke explained to one of the guests. "Scholarship-based students, mostly. Bright kids. We even had a few recommended straight from local district programs. Launching next week."

Ben barely blinked. Barely registered it.

California. Great.

He stirred his wine. Nodded once. Let it go.

Let her go.
⸻

She tried—really tried—to let her mind drift to something better.

The program. The campus photos. The email from the admissions office with her student login and a list of orientation dates. That one faculty slideshow with the weird stock music and faded headshots.

New York Polytechnical Institute: California Satellite Campus.

Kaydel had been practically squealing about it. And Rey had nodded along, pretending to be chill even though her chest was tight with disbelief the entire time.

She'd scrolled through the faculty bios last night just to feel something that wasn't panic. The buildings looked nice. Clean. Modern. With big windows and shiny labs.

One name had caught her eye. Luke Skywalker.

Something about it made her pause. Familiar. Like she'd seen it in an old textbook or... a news article maybe?

She shrugged to herself.

Probably nothing.

Her phone rang.

She jumped—literally flinched—her elbow knocking the sponge off the counter. Her heart stuttered so hard it hurt.

She stared at the screen. No name. Just a number.

She swallowed, her fingers numb as she grabbed the phone and pressed it to her ear.

"H-Hello?"

"Rey?"

The voice on the other end was soft, professional—tired, maybe—but familiar.

"It's Doctor Elman."

Rey's throat tightened. She swallowed so hard it hurt. "Y-Yes. Hi. Hi—uh..."

She laughed nervously, already bracing herself, sliding into the nearest barstool like her knees might give out. "Please. Just tell me the bad news first. I can take it."

There was a pause. Then a light chuckle.

"Well, let's start with the good news then," Doctor Elman said gently. "Rey, you do not have chlamydia, gonorrhea, syphilis, trichomoniasis, or any other STDs we tested for."

Rey blinked. "Wait—really?"

"Yes, really," the doctor said, her tone warm now. "You're perfectly clear."

Rey felt herself float for a second. Her shoulders slumped, a rush of relief overwhelming her. "Oh my God. Oh thank God."

But then—

"Rey... you are pregnant."

Record scratch. World tilt.

"What."

"Your blood test confirmed it. Your hCG levels are—"

"No," Rey blurted, her voice climbing an octave. "No, no—I took a test. Two tests. From the dollar store. They were negative. Negative, doctor."

Doctor Elman was calm, practiced. "It's not uncommon. Early testing can result in false negatives. Over-the-counter kits aren't always reliable, especially if hCG levels are still rising. But your blood work doesn't lie, Rey."

Rey stared at the floor. Her mouth opened, then closed again.

She felt like the air had been sucked out of the room. Like she'd fallen sideways through her own body.

Pregnant.

Pregnant.

Ben Solo. That smug, lying bastard. Had knocked her up.

Chapter Text

Rey paced her trailer like a caged animal, every muscle in her body taut, every nerve on fire. Her heart hadn't stopped racing since the call. Hours later, she still couldn't eat. Couldn't sleep. Couldn't drink. Could barely breathe.

Her stomach felt like it had collapsed in on itself.

She gripped the sides of the sink, knuckles white, before spinning around again—wild, frantic—and kicking at the trash can by the counter. It tipped over with a soft thud, and there they were.

Those two goddamn dollar store tests.

Lying there, smug.

That model on the box still smiled up at her like this was the best news of her life. Like everything was sunshine and baby showers and pastel balloons.

"Why the fuck are you so happy?" Rey growled, her voice cracking.

She sank to the floor, legs folding beneath her as she buried her face in her hands.

Shit.

Shit.

She was pregnant.

Actually, really, fully pregnant.

The doctor had said it gently, with that calm, clinical voice that made Rey want to scream. She'd told her to come in again tomorrow for another test, just to be certain, but when Rey—desperate, shaking—had asked, "Could your test have been wrong...?" the doctor had only laughed softly and said, "Have a good night, Rey. Try to rest. We'll talk in the morning."

Rest?

Rest?

She slammed her fist into the floor once, twice.

How the fuck was she supposed to rest?

She was nineteen.

Nineteen. A high school graduate barely scraping by in a trailer park. No mom or dad. No family to call her own. Barely even a plan past next month. She'd just gotten into college and now—

Now she was trailer park trash knocked up by a man who wasn't even hers.

A man she could barely call anything at all.

A man who probably hadn't thought of her once since he left.

What a cliché, Rey.

She laughed bitterly, wiping the tears from her chin.

What a fucking cliché.
⸻

It was early. Too early for the ache in Rey's chest, too early for the pounding in her head, but there she was—already seated at the clinic, legs jittering, palms clammy. Her grip on Rose's hand was borderline bruising, but Rose didn't complain, only winced and offered a quiet, "Rey... you're gonna be okay. Let's just see what the doctor says, alright?"

Rey nodded, her throat too tight to speak, the sob building like a wave she kept trying to hold back. If she cried now, she wouldn't stop. She just knew it.

The hallway lights buzzed faintly. Time moved in strange, jagged spurts. The walls felt too white, the room too quiet. And then, finally, the nurse reappeared with a clipboard, her expression unreadable as she motioned them back.

Rey nearly tripped on the way in, her fingers still fused with Rose's. She didn't even ask this time—just looked at Rose, eyes wide and pleading. Rose nodded once and followed without a word.

The doctor was still kind. A little more tired-looking, but kind. She sat behind her desk and folded her hands before sliding the paper toward Rey with care.

"Rey," she said softly, "these are your results."

Rey didn't move at first. Couldn't. It was Rose who reached for it, reading over her shoulder in silence.

Then a soft gasp escaped her lips.

That alone told Rey everything.

She forced herself to look. Forced her eyes to skim the lines of medical jargon until one sentence jumped out in merciless clarity, bold and blunt:

Pregnancy: Positive.

She blinked once. Twice.

But the words didn't change.

She wasn't just late. She wasn't just overwhelmed. She wasn't just being paranoid.

She was pregnant.

Actually, terrifyingly, undeniably pregnant.

And all she could whisper was, "Oh... God."

She stared down at the paper like the words might rearrange themselves, like maybe if she blinked hard enough, they'd vanish. Change. Lie to her. Her hands were trembling so badly now she could hardly grip the edge of the desk.

Somewhere, far away, voices were speaking. Rose was saying something—soft, urgent—but it came through like static. And Dr. Elman too. Her voice calm, measured.

"Rey. You have... options."
That part she heard.

"You are very early in your pregnancy," the doctor continued gently, her hands folded neatly over the file. "And although I do not perform these procedures here, I can refer you to a colleague... in the next state over."

Rey blinked.

Procedures.

She felt Rose squeeze her hand again—tighter this time. "I can call my mom right now, Rey. She'll know what to do. We don't have to figure this out alone, okay?"

Rey shook her head slowly, not at Rose, not even at the doctor—more like she was trying to shake the thoughts out of her own skull. Her chest was tightening.

"I... I just need to breathe," she whispered hoarsely, barely able to speak. "Just—just a second, please."

But even as she said it, she wasn't sure if she meant it for them or herself.
⸻

Ben adjusted the cuffs of his jacket, jaw tight, as the elevator shot up to the top floor of the SoloTech West Coast offices. His reflection in the mirrored panel glared back at him—broad-shouldered, stoic, and scarred.

The line of stitches had healed mostly now. What remained was a faint pink gash that cut from the edge of his cheekbone toward his jaw, sharp and deliberate, like someone had drawn it there on purpose. It should’ve ruined his face. Instead, somehow, it made everything worse. More dramatic. More brooding. The PR team was already spinning it. Leia had laughed outright—“You look like you walked out of a gothic romance novel.”

Whatever. Let them talk.

The elevator doors opened, and Anakin was waiting.

“Finally,” his grandfather said, already turning on his heel. “The board’s getting impatient. They need a face. And now”—he gestured vaguely to Ben’s face—“you’ve got the right one for the job.”

Ben didn’t reply. Just followed, stone-faced.

He’d been back in California for three days. Long enough for the local media to start buzzing again. Long enough for Phasma to coordinate more perfectly framed interviews. Long enough to settle back into the suffocating rhythm of Solo family expectations.

He worked. He nodded. He answered questions with clipped efficiency and didn’t flinch when people stared at the scar. In fact, he leaned into it.

Let them stare.

Let them think he was too cold, too sharp, too removed.

Let them wonder why he’d been gone. Let them invent something—stress leave, maybe. Burnout. A minor accident. That’s what the press release had said anyway. Nothing serious. Just a little “R&R” before the next SoloTech expansion.

No one knew the truth. Not about the girl. Not about the trailer. Not about how he’d bled from more than just the head when he left.

And that’s how he wanted it.

Rey wasn’t part of this world. She never had been. She never would be.

Beside him, Phasma walked in perfect step, a tablet in her hand, her mouth moving fast as she rattled off figures, names, a rundown of new investors. She was sharp, smart, surgically efficient. Her platinum hair was pulled into a perfect twist, her heels made no sound when she walked, and she never once tried to make eye contact unless it was necessary.

They got along now.

Strangely.

Like… corporate partners. Colleagues on a hostile merger.

She didn’t flirt. He didn’t try. Their chemistry was like a flatlined monitor—steady, cold, clinical.

But she was good at her job. And she didn’t ask stupid questions.

So when she handed him a pen to sign the new proposal, he took it. Signed. Handed it back.

“Your scar’s healing well,” she said absently, eyes on the screen.

He didn’t respond.

“Public loves it,” she added with a wry smirk. “Makes you look like you’ve finally been through something.”

He side-eyed her. “You mean besides being engaged to you?”

She almost smiled. “Exactly.”

It wasn’t friendship. Not really. But it worked.

Better than whatever the hell he’d had with Rey—if you could even call it that. That wasn’t a partnership. That wasn’t clean. That was messy. That was reckless. That was—

He slammed the elevator button harder than necessary.

Ben Solo was fine.

He didn’t think about her.

He didn’t remember the way she used to mumble in her sleep, or how she’d tuck her hair behind her ear when she was nervous, or how she’d say “Jesus, Solo” like she couldn’t decide whether to slap him or kiss him.

He didn’t replay the sound of her voice when she said Get out. He didn’t feel it in his chest like broken glass. He didn’t see her in the corners of every memory that still felt warm.

Rey?

Didn’t know her.

Couldn’t pick her out of a lineup.

He rubbed the scar once, absently, the tip of his finger tracing its edge. It still felt unfamiliar. Like it belonged to someone else.

“Ben,” Anakin snapped, pulling him out of the fog. “Pay attention.”

Ben blinked. Straightened his spine. Nodded once. “I’m here.”

I’m here.

But he wasn’t, not really.

Somewhere far off—buried under deadlines and headlines and the ever-growing pressure to be a Solo again—he was still in a trailer. Still tasting cherry on her lips. Still hearing the crack in her voice when she told him to leave.

But none of that mattered now.

Not to him.

He didn’t care.

He didn’t.

Right?

Chapter Text

Rey had believed in choice since her first biology class in eighth grade—long before she truly grasped how heavy that word could be. Even then, it had made sense to her: that a body, her body, should belong only to her. Not to a man. Not to the government. Not to some twist of fate. Just hers. Always hers.

But now, sitting on a quiet bus beside Rose, her hand wouldn't leave her stomach.

Her fingers moved in soft, absent circles over her navel, like she could feel something already forming inside. It made no sense—there was nothing yet. Not really. Not yet. But her hand stayed there. And Rose, seated next to her, never let go of her shoulder.

She barely remembered climbing the steps to the Tico house, let alone the warm and tight bear hug Mrs. Tico pulled her into, that woman's strong arms somehow saying all the things Rey couldn't.

And then Finn was there too.

Oh god, Finn.

Sweet, solemn-eyed Finn, the pastor's son, sitting at the dinner table as the women around Rey quietly, kindly, began talking about... options.

Rey had asked him to come. She'd wanted support. Now, she almost regretted it. He didn't belong in this conversation—didn't belong in her shame, her mess, her confusion. But when he spoke, his voice was gentle and sure:

"I'll drive you, Rey. To the other clinic. Say the word. Whatever you need, I'm here for you."

Her heart clenched at the quiet sincerity. He was so good. So kind. So everything a person should be.

Why couldn't she fall in love with him? Why couldn't she just take the easy road for once?

Her fingers tightened on her belly at that thought. That word. Love.

She hated it. Hated it. Her chest twisted. Her throat burned. She clenched her jaw hard.

Forget about him.

But no matter how tightly she curled her hands, she couldn't stop touching her stomach.

She couldn't do this.

She couldn't.

And yet—she couldn't do the other thing either.

It was a choice.

That was the whole damn point.

She stayed at Rose's place for the next three days.

Mrs. Tico made sure she was fed, warm, and constantly reminded that she wasn't alone. She'd pop her head in with a cup of tea or sliced fruit and ask soft, firm questions like, "You're feeling better? Eating?" or "Still feeling dizzy in the mornings?"—like Rey had always been part of their family.

Finn came by after work or classes, bringing her snacks she barely touched and his steady, quiet presence. Sometimes he'd offer advice—"Don't think about the next year. Think about tomorrow"—and sometimes he'd just sit with her in silence. That was almost better.

And for those three days, Rey's mind spun like a storm. I can't do this. I can't have a baby. I don't even know what I'm doing with my life—

But then, in the quiet, something would interrupt the spiral.

What if...?

What if the baby had her nose? What if they kicked for the first time and she felt it, really felt it, not just in her body but in her soul? What if she got to hold them, name them, be their whole world? What if she finally belonged to someone, and they belonged to her?

And one night, long after Rose had fallen asleep beside her, Rey lay awake staring at the ceiling. Her hand rested over her stomach again, instinctive now, a motion without thought.

She closed her eyes.

Imagined it.

Imagined them.

And just like that, she knew.

Rey was going to make her choice.

She was going to keep her baby.

She almost laughed, then cried, at how insane it all sounded spilling out of her mouth—like she was hearing someone else speak. Her voice trembled, uneven. But Rose just nodded, squeezing her hand tightly.

"If that's what you want, Rey."

Finn echoed it too, his voice low, eyes misting. "We're here for you. Whatever you need."

Mrs. Tico, though, didn't smile. Her expression was all warmth and steel. She stepped closer, folding her arms like a general delivering orders.

"You are not doing this alone, Rey. I won't let you." Her voice didn't waver. "You're going to California with Rose. You're going to take care of yourself and that baby. You're going to enjoy your pregnancy while me and Mr. Tico send you money every month. And when you're done, you'll be a damn good engineer and then you can 'pay us back'—while I babysit. Got it?"

Rey was already smiling, blinking through tears, when Mrs. Tico added—firmer now:

"But you are not doing this by yourself. You're telling the father. He has to take responsibility, Rey."

Her voice was calm. Cold. And absolutely final.

Rey felt the color drain from her face. Her mouth opened, then closed again. Finally, she forced the words out, quiet and shaky.

"I can't... He's not—he's not in the picture."

Finn's brow furrowed, his warm expression darkening into something colder, harder. Rose shifted beside her, eyes falling to her lap. She didn't speak. Didn't meet her mother's stare—because Mrs. Tico knew. She could see it. Rose was keeping something from her.

Rey stood slowly, her hands curling into fists at her sides.

"Please," she said, her voice cracking. "I don't want to talk about... him."

She drew in a breath that barely steadied her. "This is my baby. Okay? Mine. And... I'm gonna take care of it."

Rey said it softly, but the weight of it was thunderous.

It rang in her ears long after she left the Tico kitchen, long after the warm scent of chamomile faded from her mug and her heart stopped fluttering from Mrs. Tico’s steady, maternal orders.

I’m gonna take care of it.

She repeated it like a mantra while folding the last shirt into her battered duffel bag, while digging through drawers for the charger she always misplaced. Her hands shook, but her breath stayed steady.

It had to.

“I got the scholarship,” she whispered to herself, as if saying it aloud would make it more real. “I’m going to California. Rose’s cousin’s got a connection at the lab there—I could get a job. A good one. Good pay, benefits. I could… I could take care of it. Take care of us.”

Us.

The word still tripped her up. Still made her pause, hand drifting once more over her stomach like it had a mind of its own. She barely felt anything, just the faintest flutter under her skin—like hope, like fear.

Finn tapped gently at her trailer door before stepping inside.

He looked… solid. Kind. He always did. Arms full of groceries and her favorite sparkling tea, like this was all completely normal.

He smiled. “Hey. Got the last of the boxes in the truck. You sure this is everything?”

“Yeah,” Rey said, even though her heart felt half-empty. “This is everything.”

Finn walked closer, glanced at the half-packed boxes on the couch, the stack of worn clothes still needing folding, then back to her.

“I’ll help you settle in,” he said, voice steady but warm. “One of my dad’s churches is about fifteen minutes from where you’ll be. He’s hoping I’ll take over in a year or two.”

Rey raised an eyebrow. “Your dad has more than one church now?”

He gave a small, almost apologetic nod. “Yeah. He’s expanded a bit over the years—three campuses now, technically. The California one’s newer. A few of the families moved west and he wanted them to feel like they still had a home.”

She nodded slowly, letting it sink in. She’d always known Finn’s family had more than most, but sometimes she forgot just how much more. Rose’s family got by. She..scraped by. But Finn, his life had always had room to stretch. And now he was going to a theological school nearby—one that trained ministers like his father. The kind of ministers who still lived in the world. Who could marry, have families, walk beside the people they served.

He stepped closer, not crowding her, just there. Solid. Familiar.

“I’ll be around,” he said, quieter now. “As much as you need.”

She blinked at him, then smiled. “Thanks, Finn. I mean it.”

He smiled back, warm and open. His eyes lingered—soft, searching. Rey’s stomach fluttered again, but not from the baby. From guilt. From the way he looked at her like she was some prize he was waiting to be handed.

Why couldn’t I just love you?

She pushed the thought away.

Ben tossed the pen across his desk. It clattered against the wall with a pathetic plastic smack.

“Fuck her,” he muttered, slumping back in the chair.

A beat passed. He groaned, covering his face with both hands.

You did. Repeatedly. Loved it. Still think about it at night like a pervert.

He winced.

“That’s not what I meant.”

He pushed up from his chair, pacing. His brain was stuck in a looping mess—every moment with her replaying like bad film on cheap tape. Her flushed face. Her gasps. Her stupid little nervous giggle when she pretended she didn’t like it rough, when she obviously did. Her scent. Her eyes. Her fucking eyes.

He missed her.

Like a lunatic.

He’d read the same sentence in his case file seven times. He hadn’t eaten all day. He nearly snapped at his secretary for asking if he wanted coffee. The office felt cold. Silent. Lifeless.

And his mind kept slipping—back to her. Always her.

“Fuck this,” he muttered again, louder this time.

He grabbed his keys, barely thinking, rage and want spiraling together in his chest like a hurricane.

The last drawer closed. Her duffel zipped shut.

“Got it all?” Finn asked again from the door of the trailer, his voice light. “Last chance to leave behind anything you want to forget.”

Rey looked around—at the old quilt from her childhood bunk, the scratch in the linoleum from when she’d spilled nail polish, the little fridge with the magnet shaped like a whale she’d been gifted from Rose in high school.

“Nope,” she said. “Let’s go.”

They stepped outside just as Ben’s car sped down the opposite street. A blur of black. A thrum of tires. So close. So fast.

Ben didn’t see the moving truck.

Didn’t see Rey laughing faintly as she and Finn secured her bag into the backseat.

Didn’t see her eyes glance over her shoulder, as if sensing something.

Chapter Text

Ben skidded the car into the gravel with a force that made dust billow up around him like smoke. He barely waited for the engine to stop before he was out, slamming the door shut with a thud that rattled the quiet evening. His boots crunched over dirt as he stalked toward her trailer, jaw clenched, hands fisted.

What the hell was he even doing?

Too late. Too angry. Too fucking in love with someone who probably didn’t even want to see him.

He banged on the door.

“Rey!”

No answer.

He hit the door again, harder this time, his breath shallow with the weight of everything he hadn’t said, everything he’d done wrong. He didn’t care if she screamed, didn’t care if she slapped him across the face the second she opened that door—so long as she opened it.

“Rey, open the goddamn—!”

“Excuse me!” came a shrill voice behind him.

Ben turned, scowling automatically.

At the foot of the steps stood a small, round woman in a dusty purple housedress and orthopedic slippers, her gray hair pulled into a bun that had long since lost its battle with the breeze. Her hands were planted firmly on her hips.

“You got some nerve pounding like that,” she snapped. “People live here, you know.”

Ben blinked at her, panting. “…Are you Mrs. Milkowitz?”

She squinted at him. “You one of those city code inspectors? Or one of her exes?”

He stared. “You’re the one with the plum schnapps.”

Her brows shot up. “That’s what I’m known for now? Lovely.”

Ben dragged a hand down his face. “Look—this is none of your business, okay?”

“Sure didn’t sound like it wasn’t my business. Woke up my cat.”

He stepped past her, tried to peek through the trailer window.

“Rey!” he called again, louder now. “Rey, I swear to God—just talk to me. Please.”

Mrs. Milkowitz made a noise somewhere between a sigh and a scoff. “You’re wasting your breath, you know.”

He froze.

“What?”

“She’s gone.”

Ben’s heart dropped. “What do you mean gone?”

“She left. With that sweet preacher’s boy. Finn.” She tilted her head slightly, examining Ben with mild pity. “Nice kid. Polite. Clean-shaven. Real gentleman.”

The name hit him like a punch.

Finn…?

Finn.

A preacher’s son?

He blinked slowly. “She left… with him?”

Mrs. Milkowitz gave a little shrug. “Trailer’s all cleaned out. He even packed the car for her. Very thoughtful.”

Ben’s vision went white for a second. His pulse throbbed hard in his ears, his chest, his teeth.

She’d left.

With him.

Moved on. Replaced him with someone soft. Someone safe.

Someone who wasn’t a fucking disaster in a thousand-dollar jacket.

He swallowed hard, jaw tight. “Right.”

Mrs. Milkowitz was still watching him. “You okay, sugar?”

Ben turned slowly, backing toward his car, rage simmering low beneath his skin. He gave her a brittle, humorless smile.

“Peachy.”

Then he got in and drove off before the engine could cool.

—————

Ben sat in his car, engine off, the motel parking lot quiet except for the low hum of a vending machine and the distant bark of a dog. The air was thick with dust and heat, but his chest was colder than it had ever felt. He didn’t even know why he was still here. She was gone. Trailer empty. Gone with someone else.

Some sweet, clean-cut Finn guy.

A preacher’s son.

He let out a bitter laugh, scrubbing a hand down his face.

God, he’d fucked it up.

He unlocked his phone with a rough flick of his thumb, the screen lighting up too brightly in the dark car. He stared at their old thread—his last message still unread. It hurt. Visibly. Like the pixels were mocking him.

His thumbs hovered.

> you really ran off with some guy that fast?

Delete. Too petty.

> guess the holy boy doesn’t mind touching what’s already been moaning under me.

Delete. Too cruel.

> was he waiting outside while I was inside you?

He winced. Deleted it fast. What the fuck was wrong with him.

Another message started forming, shaky this time.

> I was going to tell you. About the engagement. About everything. I just… didn’t know how. Didn’t want to lose you. Didn’t think you’d—

He stopped, jaw clenching. Deleted again. He hated himself. All of it.

He stared down at the screen, fingers frozen.

And then, finally—simple. No venom. No swagger. Just truth.

> I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have lied. You didn’t deserve any of that.

Send.

Nothing.

The bubble never turned blue.

Ben stared. Waited.

Still nothing.

She’d blocked his number...

The realisation hit harder than he expected, like a slap to the chest. His hand trembled slightly, his throat tightening. He slammed the phone down against the dashboard once—then again, harder. The crack was immediate. Glass splintered.

He sank into the seat, breathing hard, the broken screen flashing back at him like a punishment.

—————-

A thousand miles away, Rey stepped into her new room—and stopped short, her hand still on the doorknob.

Her own door. Her own bed. Her own tiny patch of peace.

No trailer creaking when someone walked by. No leaky faucet. No busted heater groaning through the night. Just clean, sunlit walls and a space that smelled faintly of lavender and freedom.

She let out a laugh—half breathless, half unbelieving—and then actually squealed. The sound startled her, and she slapped her hand over her mouth before laughing again, softer this time.

She was here.

She was really, finally here.

She stepped further inside and dropped her duffel with a heavy thud. The whole bag barely held her life. A few outfits. Toothpaste. The folder of documents and forms. A photo of her and Rose from last summer.

And two thousand dollars.

Well—barely. That amount had nearly bled her dry.

Five hundred she’d earned the hard way—doubling up on shifts at Plutt’s, dodging greasy hands and mean looks, barely sleeping, barely breathing. The day she quit, she’d smiled so sweet it gave her a cavity, handed in her apron, and told the fat troll he could “try surviving without her.” He hadn’t known what to say.

Another five hundred had come from Professor Kaydel. Quietly. Kindly. No strings. Just slipped her a form and said, “You’ve got too much potential to stay stuck. Apply. Take the help.” Rey hadn’t even cried until later.

And the last thousand?

That had come from the biggest mess of all.

Fixing Ben Solo’s car.

She’d actually done a great job. Grease under her nails, sweat on her brow, hands steady like they always were when she was under a hood. Rey had grown up around busted engines and stripped bolts—taught herself on junkers and hand-me-downs back when no one else was going to do it for her. She knew her way around a carburetor better than most guys in town.

Ben had stood there, watching. Barely speaking. Occasionally asking a question he didn’t really care about the answer to—his gaze never quite leaving her face.

She shook her head, jaw tight. No. Don’t think about that now. Don’t think about him.

This was her fresh start. Her second chance. And she’d earned it—scraped and clawed and out-hustled every goddamn obstacle.

She crossed the room and flopped onto the bed, staring up at the plain white ceiling with something that felt like wonder blooming behind her ribs.

Then her hand drifted down, resting softly over her belly.

“I got you,” she whispered, a small, private smile blooming on her lips. “We’re gonna be okay.”

She believed it now. Really, truly did.

The door creaked open again, and Finn stepped in with the last of her duffel bags slung over one shoulder, a soft smile on his face. He glanced around the room—her room—with an approving nod before setting the bag down beside her desk.

Rey shifted on the edge of the bed, her legs swinging just slightly off the floor as she tucked her hair behind one ear, cheeks warming. “Thank you again. For driving. For helping carry everything. For just… being here.”

Finn shook his head, waving a hand as he gave her a crooked grin. “’Course. Can’t have a lady carrying heavy stuff now,” he added, his voice dipping into that low, natural drawl he always tried to hide in bigger towns.

Rey laughed softly, then reached up to wrap one arm around him in a half-hug. He was warm. Like everything he did and said came with the promise of safety.

Finn smiled into her hair, gentle and careful as ever.

When they pulled back, he nodded toward the stack of paperwork on her nightstand. “So? You signed up? Everything good?”

Rey nodded, nearly bouncing on the mattress. “Yep! Orientation’s online tonight. And real classes start tomorrow.” Her eyes sparkled as she added, “I can’t wait. I’m so ready.”

Finn’s gaze lingered on her a moment too long, but when he nodded, it was slow, sure. “You’re gonna do great, Rey. You’re already doin’ great.”

She smiled again, heart fluttering just a little. But even now—even with Finn standing right there—her fingers drifted toward her stomach, tracing soft lines through the fabric of her t-shirt.

Her future was here. It was real. It was hers.

And she wasn’t alone.

Chapter Text

The conference room was silent.

Then: click. Click. Click.

Ben’s pen tapped violently against the glass tabletop, his jaw locked tight as his eyes narrowed on the quarterly projections. Someone across from him—some middle-management drone in a suit two sizes too wide—cleared his throat to speak.

“Sir, if we just—”

“No,” Ben said flatly. “You’re wrong.”

The man blinked. “But we haven’t even—”

“Do it again. Restructure the entire pitch deck and run the logistics through Korr holdings. If you can’t figure out how to do that, I’ll find someone who can.”

Silence.

Even Anakin, seated at the head of the table, arched an eyebrow.

And then—he smiled.

“Well,” he murmured, leaning back in his leather chair. “Took you long enough.”

Ben didn’t answer. He just stood, hands in his pockets, blazer sharp and black as his mood. The second the meeting adjourned, he stalked out into the corridor, ignoring the tight murmurs behind him. Everything was noise. White-hot, stupid, pointless noise.

He hadn’t slept.

Not really.

He’d driven back to his place after smashing his phone. Bought a burner. Didn’t even save her number.

Didn’t need to.

She wasn’t answering.

She wasn’t coming back.

She’d left with someone else.

He hated her.

He wanted her.

He wanted to burn the whole state of California to the ground.

Instead, he walked back to his office, shut the door with a hard clack, and yanked open the window blinds to stare down at the city he used to love.

Now everything just looked like ash.

⸻

“Okay, everyone!” chirped Professor Johnson, smiling at the group of wide-eyed students in the airy lab room. “Find your station, please—and don’t forget, safety goggles are not optional!”

Rey giggled, adjusting her goggles as she slid into her seat beside a girl named Cass. Her fingers danced excitedly across the surface of the polished workstation—brand new equipment, well-labeled tools, actual working screens.

It was heaven.

“So,” Cass whispered, grinning, “first time in California?”

“Kind of,” Rey replied, still a little breathless. “First time away from everything.”

“Well, welcome. You picked a great program. Johnson doesn’t mess around. You’ll be running mock diagnostics by week two.”

Rey beamed.

Somewhere inside her, a little flicker of disbelief still hadn’t gone out. That she was here. In a real program. With a full course load. With air conditioning and proper resources and professors who didn’t treat her like she was stupid just because she used to sleep in a trailer and fix engines to make rent.

She was here.

She had made it.

And she was going to be a damn good engineer.

⸻

“SoloTech is not a fucking charity.”

Ben’s voice cracked like a whip against the glass office walls.

“I don’t care if he’s your brother-in-law, your college roommate, or the second coming of Steve Jobs—if he can’t code, he’s gone.”

Anakin smirked from the corner, arms crossed. “Look at you,” he said. “Finally showing teeth.”

Ben didn’t look at him. “Keep pushing me,” he muttered. “See how sharp they get.”

He didn’t know why he was like this—only that he couldn’t stop. Everyone annoyed him. Every sentence was too long, every report too slow, every face too smug and undeserving.

They didn’t know.

They didn’t know that the only person who made him laugh in the last three years had packed her life into a car and left without a goodbye.

They didn’t know that her name still lived in his throat like a burn.

⸻

Lunch on the quad was perfect.

Warm breeze, light chatter, her new notebook already full of notes she actually understood. She sipped from a smoothie Finn had handed her that morning with a little bow and a smile—“madame deserves something fruity on her first day.”

Rey had rolled her eyes, but the blush wouldn’t stop.

Finn was so kind. So present. So there. Her roommate had already asked if they were together and Rey had stammered, “Oh! No—just—just a friend.”

But the way Finn had looked at her when he dropped her off…

She shook her head quickly.

Focus.

She rubbed her stomach absently and whispered, “We did it.”

⸻

That night, he stood on the balcony of his penthouse, tie loose, blazer thrown over the railing. The city buzzed below. He didn’t hear it.

He took a swig from the whiskey in his hand and looked at the stars.

She could see them too, couldn’t she?

He bet she was laughing.

He bet that guy was making her smile.

Ben closed his eyes, and for one brief, gutting second, he wished he had never touched her.

Because now?

He didn’t know how to stop needing her.

⸻

“Ben,” Luke said, already bracing for the pushback, “I was hoping you’d swing by the institute this weekend. Just a quick hello to the scholarship group, that’s all.”

Ben’s laugh was dry, flat. “God, no.”

“They’re part of the Skywalker Initiative,” Luke added, pushing a slim folder across the desk. “Full-ride admits. Books, tuition, the works—some of these kids are geniuses. Just say a few words, shake a few hands.”

“No.”

“Ben.”

He groaned, snatching the folder with clear reluctance. “Fine. But if one of them tries to pitch me an app—”

“Just look at their names,” Luke said, smiling faintly. “We got a good batch this cycle.”

Ben flipped through the list without enthusiasm. A few foreign surnames. One that looked vaguely familiar. He tried to pronounce it, then gave up with a wave of his hand. “Next.”

And then—

Rey Jones.

His thumb froze.

Eyes widened.

No. Fucking. Way.

His breath caught as he stared at the name like it might disappear.

Luke blinked. “What?”

Ben didn’t answer. His heartbeat was thunder.

Luke leaned in. “What—do you know her or something—?”

“Give me her file.” The words came out rough, rushed. “Now.”

Luke frowned, confused. “Ben, what—”

“I said give it to me.”

It wasn’t a request.

Luke handed over the slim manila folder with visible reluctance, watching as Ben tore it open. He skimmed the basics—engineering program, scholarship fully covered, dorm pending—until he hit the date of birth.

September 13. 2006.

Nineteen.

Nineteen.

Ben sat back, like the wind had been knocked from him.

She said twenty-four.

He felt dizzy.

I mean…I knew she was lying. I just thought…twenty-one maybe? With the way she knocked back that schnapps like it was water—

“Ben?” Luke’s voice was more cautious now.

Ben was blushing. Actually blushing.

He cleared his throat and quickly turned the page, as if ignoring the number might erase it from his brain. “It’s…fine. I’ll swing by. Five minutes. That’s all.”

Luke’s eyes narrowed. “You’re acting weird.”

“I’m always weird,” Ben muttered, but he couldn’t stop touching the corner of the page, his thumb brushing softly over her signature like it was something sacred.

She’s here.

She hadn’t run away from him. Not really.

She’d run toward something better.

And God help him—he was proud.

Then furious.

Then terrified.

Then—

I’ll have to reprimand her for lying.

The thought slithered in with a smirk he didn’t mean to make.

“Bad girl,” he could almost hear himself saying. “What else did you lie about?”

Nineteen.

Jesus.

He stood abruptly, file in hand, and stalked off.

He needed air.

He needed to scream.

He needed—

Her.

Chapter Text

By Saturday, the nausea was back with a vengeance.

Rey had woken up hopeful—she’d felt mostly fine the last few days, maybe a little tired, maybe a little fluttery—but nothing like this. Today was different. She’d barely brushed her teeth before the wave hit her like a warm, heavy ocean current, slow but unrelenting.

She leaned against the little desk by her bed, trying to breathe through her mouth, willing her stomach to calm as she eyed the neat white envelope she’d tossed beside her notebook.

The invitation.

A soft smile curled her lips as she reached for it. Someone from the scholarship committee had handed it to her the day before—one of those older admin ladies with a big smile and even bigger pearls who squeezed Rey’s shoulder like she knew all her secrets and adored her anyway.

She hadn’t read it too closely. Just skimmed for the important bits—day, time, dress code. Her eyes flicked across the heading—

“Skywalker–Solo Future Leaders Welcome Event.”

She didn’t even finish it.

The second she saw Sky—

Her stomach lurched.

Like violently.

“Oh God,” Rey muttered, pressing the heel of her hand to her belly and stumbling toward the bathroom counter. The nausea crashed through her like a wave, sharp and hot. She gripped the edge of the sink, squeezing her eyes shut.

She breathed through it. Slowly. Carefully.

She’d thought she dodged it, honestly. Thought she’d be one of the lucky ones. But the last two mornings had already started bad—and this was worse.

Eventually, the dizziness eased. Not gone, just… dulled. She straightened slowly and caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror—pale but determined. Her dress was simple, one Rose had helped her pick out earlier in the week, when they’d finally met up after days of texting.

Rose was only about thirty minutes away at her nursing program and had come down Tuesday evening with snacks, vitamins, and that big-sister energy Rey didn’t know she’d needed until she had it. They’d sat in the grass by the water fountain, comparing schedules, and Rose had pressed a soft hand to Rey’s belly and whispered, “You’re already doing amazing.”

She hadn’t cried then.

Barely.

Finn had called later that night. He was hours away, starting classes at a theological school he claimed looked like Hogwarts “but with worse coffee.” Still, he’d promised—promised—he’d visit. That he’d make the drive whenever he could.

Rey didn’t deserve him.

She wasn’t dumb—despite plenty of evidence to the contrary. She knew Finn liked her. Maybe even more than that. Especially these last few months.

She’d always caught his gaze at church. Always noticed the way he’d nudge his mom to give her extra whenever she passed the “free food” table after Sunday service. Always blushed when he smiled that soft, quiet smile like he could see something in her no one else did.

And his family—God, his family. Warm. Stable. Kind. His dad, a preacher with a voice like thunder and joy; his mom, always glowing and grounded, saying things like “I’m a woman of God first, mother second.” A brother who was a doctor, a sister who taught sixth grade.

Good people. The kind that made space for you even if you had nothing to offer. Rey had never belonged anywhere—but somehow, when they invited her over, it didn’t feel like pity.

It felt like welcome.

She took a breath now, glancing again at the invitation before slipping it back in her bag. Her stomach still swirled, but she pressed her palm lightly over the spot and whispered, “Okay, baby. We’ll get ginger candy and fake it till we make it.”

A soft knock on the doorframe startled her.

“Hey, you okay?”

It was Cass. The girl from engineering class. Big curls, bigger earrings, and an energy like sunshine.

Rey smiled, straightening. “Oh, hey!”

“You going to that thing?” Cass asked, bouncing slightly on her heels. “The initiation thing?”

Rey nodded quickly. “Yeah. I was just… leaving.”

Cass tilted her head. “Wanna walk over together? Maybe sit near the back in case it’s boring?”

Rey gave a small laugh. “Sure. Totally. Just—gimme one sec. I need to grab some candy.”

“Candy?”

“I, uh… have a huge sweet tooth.” She ducked her head with a guilty smile, one hand instinctively brushing her stomach. “It’s kind of embarrassing.”

Cass grinned like she didn’t notice anything weird. “Girl, you never need an excuse for candy. I was gonna grab M&M’s anyway.”

Rey nodded, grateful. Grateful for her new friend. For the way Cass didn’t ask too many questions. For this chance—this shaky, terrifying, hopeful little start she was building from the ground up.

They walked together, arms brushing, warm air settling over the quad. Rey’s feet felt light beneath her. Her body? Not so much. Her stomach still twisted now and then, subtle waves of nausea threading under her ribs like a reminder—you’re not alone anymore.

She let her fingers drift over her dress, hovering near her belly like a secret.

As the building came into view—fancy glass, high ceilings, polished doors—Rey straightened her shoulders.

⸻

As soon as Rey and Cass stepped inside, the air changed.

Cooler. Quieter. Almost reverent.

The lobby was grander than Rey expected—clean lines and tall ceilings, glass panels stretching up toward a second-floor mezzanine where light poured in like honey. A string quartet played something soft in the corner, and tall tables lined the walls with little finger sandwiches and pastel macarons she absolutely couldn’t stomach but admired anyway.

“Oh wow,” Cass whispered. “This is, like… wedding-reception fancy.”

Rey nodded, her eyes wide as she took it all in. Everything gleamed. The gold-foiled program cards, the delicate white drapes swooping across the ceiling, the soft hum of excitement buzzing beneath it all. Even the water glasses looked like they cost more than her rent.

A few students had already gathered near the refreshment tables, chatting in small clusters. Most of them looked around her age, some even younger, all dressed in their best—a mix of wide-eyed nerves and barely-contained pride. Rey recognized a few faces from orientation, but mostly, everyone was new.

A tall boy with a German accent complimented Cass’s earrings. A girl with box braids and a bright orange binder introduced herself as from Nairobi. Another student, short and serious-eyed, said he was from Tennessee and had never been west of Oklahoma before this.

There were quick introductions. First names. Awkward little laughs.
No one asked where anyone came from. Not really.

And Rey just kept smiling.

Even as her stomach turned again for the third time in ten minutes. Even as her fingers hovered near her tote bag, brushing instinctively where her belly pressed lightly beneath the soft cotton of her dress.

Eventually, a soft chime sounded from overhead, and someone motioned for them to begin taking their seats.

The wide lecture-style space was set up more like a sleek auditorium—cushioned chairs, softly lit steps, and a raised platform at the front with projectors, subtle lighting, and a clean blue banner hung above the stage.

Rey’s gaze flicked up toward it.

Sky—

“Hey,” Cass whispered, nudging her gently. “Third row—want to grab the end before it fills up?”

Rey blinked, pulled out of the thought, and nodded. “Yeah—yeah, good idea.”

They slid into the third row, Rey still vaguely aware of the large lettering stretched across the banner above—but the words never quite finished forming in her head. Her stomach was churning again anyway, and she was too focused on sitting down carefully and pulling out her water bottle before anything turned worse.

The lights dimmed a moment later.

A man stepped up to the podium.

Rey sat forward a little.

He was older in that gentle, ageless way. Short salt-and-sand hair, a neatly groomed beard, kind blue eyes that crinkled as they scanned the crowd. His suit was modest but well-cut, his presence calm but commanding.

Luke Skywalker.

Head of the mechanical engineering department. One of the names she’d skimmed right past in her welcome letter—too afraid at the time to let any of it feel real.

He adjusted the microphone with the kind of practiced ease that came from years of public speaking.

“Good morning,” he said, voice warm and light. “Or, depending on how last night went for some of you… good very early morning.”

A gentle ripple of laughter moved through the room.

Luke smiled wider. “I want to thank you all for being here—for believing in yourselves. For taking the risk. For showing up.”

Rey blinked hard.

He kept speaking—about opportunity, resilience, and the kind of courage it took to not just apply, but to believe you belonged. He talked about the value of effort, the dignity of questions, and the beautiful, terrifying blank slate of beginning again.

Rey didn’t even notice when her hand settled over her belly again.

Because somehow, even in this big, beautiful room surrounded by strangers—

It felt like someone finally saw her.

Chapter Text

The lights had barely come up before Luke descended from the podium, still smiling as he made his way down the front row.

He looked genuinely proud—like a teacher on the first day of school, already imagining all the brilliance these students would bring. His gaze was kind, patient, and somehow familiar in a way Rey couldn’t quite place. Not personally, just…as if people like him weren’t supposed to be real. Gentle. Respected. So calm you trusted them instantly.

He stopped briefly in front of a boy named Mateo, clasping his shoulder and saying, “I read your rec letter from Bogotá—strong stuff. I expect great things.”

To the girl from Nairobi: “You came highly recommended by one of my favorite advisors at the Institute. We were all fighting over who would get you.”

One by one, he moved down the line, offering small, specific kindnesses that somehow made the entire room lean in.

And then—

He reached Rey.

He tilted his head slightly and smiled like they were already old friends. “Rey,” he said, warm and polite. “It’s very nice to meet you.”

Her breath caught. “You… too, sir.”

“You’re from Texas, right?”

Rey nodded quickly, trying not to overdo it. “Yes, sir—I, um. I took community college for a year and a half after high school. I didn’t think I’d—when Professor Kaydel told me I got in, I couldn’t believe it. I… I’m just so happy. And grateful. Really.”

Luke’s smile deepened, the kind that made her chest flutter.

“No ‘sir,’” he said gently. “Just Luke. Please.”

She blushed. “Yes—Luke. Sorry.”

“And I’m glad too, Rey,” he said. “The Skywalker–Solo Initiative needs people like you.”

His voice had shifted slightly—still kind, but…hollow. Numb, almost. Rey furrowed her brows as the words echoed through her slowly.

Skywalker–Solo.

She’d seen it. Just earlier. On the invitation.
Maybe… maybe somewhere else? A textbook? No. It sounded older than that. Familiar in a way that made her spine go stiff.

Solo.

Wait—

“S-Solo?” she blurted, blinking too fast.

Luke turned, tilting his head slightly. “Yes?”

Rey laughed. Or… tried to. It came out panicked and too bright. “Oh! Like… like alone—like Skywalker, Solo, as in Skywalker… alone?”

Her voice cracked.

Dear God. You cannot be this cruel…

Luke chuckled kindly, not noticing the way the color drained from her face.

“Oh, no. No, not like that. ‘Solo’ is my brother-in-law’s name. The whole program is under both family branches, but it was originally started by my father—Anakin Skywalker. He used to be CEO of SoloTech.”

Rey blinked once.

Twice.

She couldn’t hear anymore. Not over the static ringing in her ears.

Luke went on casually, “My nephew Ben runs most of the company now. He’s going to stop by any minute actually—just to greet you wonderful people and—”

But Rey was already moving.

Her feet, her legs, her hands—everything felt disconnected. Cold.

She mumbled something, maybe a “sorry” or an “excuse me” or possibly just air, and stood. Her tote slid down her shoulder as she turned, heart hammering in her ears.

Out.
She needed out.

The room blurred around her as she pushed through the edge of the row, nearly tripping over someone’s backpack. Luke called after her lightly—“Everything alright?”—but she didn’t answer.

She was already halfway to the door.

⸻

Oof.

Rey staggered back, her shoulder catching the edge of the doorframe like the damn thing had moved on purpose. God, were these walls made of bricks and titanium? Her breath stuttered, and instinctively her hand flew to her belly, pressing there—just for a second—as if to say you’re okay, baby, we’re okay, just breathe.

She didn’t notice she’d walked straight into someone until her body collided with something firm.

No.

Someone.

Her gaze lifted slowly—dread already pooling at the back of her throat.

Oh.

Of course.

There he was. Ben Solo.

Looming.

Towering.

Looking like a goddamn Wall Street villain had been reborn into a sharp black suit and cologne that smelled like wealth, powdered steel, and sin.

He looked the same.

No—worse.
Smugger. Sharper. Like he knew exactly what she was running from.

She froze for a second, caught in the way his smirk curled—slow, knowing, cruel.

Rey’s heart stumbled, but she recovered fast.

She huffed, dropping her gaze like it burned her. “Excuse me,” she muttered, already angling to slip past him.

But he wouldn’t have that.

His hand caught her gently at the upper arm—not hard, not rude, just firm. Warm fingers pressing into her, keeping her still.

“Tch,” he murmured, voice low, velvet-smooth. “I’m such an oaf sometimes.”

He tilted his head, smirk deepening. “I’m sorry, Mrs…?”

His tone was pure mischief wrapped in fake apology.

Rey’s cheeks flamed as she looked up sharply, anger blazing hot beneath her skin. “No sorry necessary,” she said flatly. “Move.”

And God—he loved it.

He chuckled, a slow, rich sound like something expensive and undeserved.

“My,” he drawled, eyes dropping—not too low, just enough to make her skin crawl. “Aren’t we a little firecracker.”

She stiffened.

“And what’s that lovely country drawl I’m detecting?” he added, voice mock-curious. “Texas, is it?”

Her stomach flipped, her entire body screaming to run—but her feet wouldn’t move.
Because somehow… despite the fury, the nausea, the panic—

He still made her knees want to give out.

He was the devil.

And the devil was smirking at her like she still belonged to him.

He was still gripping her upper arm.

Not hard.

Just… enough.

Rey narrowed her eyes, gaze flicking up to his face—and paused.

Wait.

That—was that a scar?

Thin. Pale. New.

A clean slice from his jaw to just under his eye. She was sure it wasn’t there the last time they—

Well.

Her breath hitched.

She staggered back—or tried to—yanking slightly as she hissed, “Let go of me, Solo. I brought the revolver. And this time—loaded.”

Ben practically smiled.

That goddamn smug little smirk she hated.

“Oh yeah?” he murmured, stepping in closer. “Gun laws apply differently here, my little country bumpkin.”

He tapped her chin with two fingers—lightly. Playfully. Possessively.

She had half a mind to bite him.

“Who made your face like that?” Rey snapped, eyes flicking to the scar. “Another poor girl carve you up after you lied to her too?”

Ben snorted.

“No, sweetheart.” His grin stayed, but his voice dropped—low and dangerous. “This one’s all yours.”

Rey blinked.

He leaned in, eyes sharp.

“I went back that day,” he said. “After you screamed like a child and wouldn’t listen to a fucking word I was saying—”

Rey’s mouth parted.

Ben kept going, breath hot.

“—I got in my car, turned around to come find you. But guess what? A car got to me first. T-boned. Blacked out before I could even pull into the lot.”

His tone was too calm.

Too controlled.

“In and out for a week and a half,” he said. “Woke up with staples in my head and your name still stuck in my goddamn throat.”

Rey’s lips parted slightly. A flicker of disbelief. He came back?

But she shook it off just as fast, chin lifting. “I’m… sorry that happened.”

Then, with poison-sweet Texas drawl, “How’s the weddin’ comin’ along, Solo? Picked hydrangeas over lilies yet?”

Ben’s tongue rolled into his cheek.

“Not yet.”

Then—casual. Cutting.

“But my future wife’s Catholic. Got a priest in mind?”

Rey glared, already bracing for impact.

Ben didn’t miss a beat.

“What about…” Ben leaned back, tilting his head like he was wracking his brain. “Oh, what’s his face… ah, yes—Finn. Preacher boy, right?”

Rey faltered, blinking. “How’d you—?”

But Ben waved a hand, already bored of the question. “Doesn’t matter,” he drawled, his smirk sharp as ever. “Maybe good ol’ Finny can officiate the wedding. You know—anoint me and future darling as man and wife.”

Rey’s jaw clenched. Her fists did too.

“He’s Baptist,” she snapped.

Ben raised his brows, grinning wider. “We’ll convert.”

Rey tried again to pull back, tried harder this time—but Ben’s grip only tightened.

Then his voice changed again—lower, angrier.

“You’re nineteen,” he hissed.

Rey froze.

“Why did you fucking lie to me about that?”

She stared at him, heart pounding.

“It made sense then,” she muttered, cheeks flushing. “I didn’t want the pity. I didn’t want that look.”

Ben’s jaw flexed.

“You don’t get to play innocent now,” she spat. “You wanna talk about liars? You lying, manipulative, emotionally-stunted gaslightin’ jackass—”

Ben blinked. “Gaslighting? Oh, big word—did you learn that between Bible camp and shop class?”

Rey leaned in, eyes narrowing to slits. “Let go of me, Solo, before I show you what a ‘country bumpkin’ really does when a man doesn’t back off.”

He didn’t.

Not right away.

“We ain’t got nothin’ more to say to each other,” Rey whispered tightly.

And as if on cue—her stomach twisted. Not sharp. Just a deep roll. A warning.

She exhaled softly through her nose.

She refused to say it.
Refused to let him see.

This part of her? This baby? He didn’t deserve to know.

Not after everything.

She met his eyes again—strong. Angry. Hiding a storm.

“Let—”

“Ben!”

Rey flinched.

Ben didn’t.

Luke’s voice rang warm and cheerful from just a few steps away.

“Ah, I see you’ve met our dear Rey!”

Ben turned his head slightly, smirk never faltering, and called out casually, “Uncle.”

Rey barely had time to blink before Ben finally loosened his grip on her arm—only to shift it lower, just enough to nudge her body half a step toward Luke. A polite redirect.

But his hand didn’t leave.

No.

It slid behind her instead—fingers grazing the small of her back. Too low.

Too firm.

Too hidden.

From the front, it looked gentlemanly. Companionable. Like maybe they’d arrived together.

But she felt it.

Felt every infuriating inch of him pressed too close, hand resting where it had no business resting, claiming space like it belonged there.

Luke didn’t notice. He was already smiling brightly.

“Rey, Ben’s one of the reasons this entire initiative exists. You two must have a lot in common.”

Rey’s mouth opened—nothing came out.

Ben leaned down slightly, close enough for only her to hear.

“Go on,” he murmured at her ear, his breath hot and smug. “Smile for the nice man.”

Her spine went stiff. Her fists clenched.

But her face?

It remembered how to lie.

She turned slightly—enough for Luke to see her smile.

“Lovely to meet you,” she said, voice sugar-wrapped steel.

Luke beamed.

Ben just kept his hand exactly where it was.

Chapter Text

Luke beamed at them both, still completely unaware of the volcanic tension simmering between them.

“Rey’s one of our star admits,” he said proudly, his hand resting briefly on her shoulder like she was already a success story in the making. “Top marks, glowing recommendations. We’re lucky to have her.”

Rey flushed—not just from the praise.

Because while Luke gushed, Ben’s hand was still on her lower back, right at the edge of propriety.

His palm shifted slowly—bare, calculated circles at the base of her spine. Too subtle for Luke to notice, too focused for Rey to ignore. It wasn’t comfort. It wasn’t support. It was ownership. And she felt it.

Luke kept going, utterly blind. “She’s in mechanical engineering, actually—pretty rare to see someone with her kind of grit. You should’ve read the letters Kaydel sent in. No excuses, just… persistence.”

Rey gave a polite smile, but her fingers curled slightly around the strap of her tote. She needed out.

“Thank you, really. I should—” she began.

But Ben’s voice slid in, lazy and dangerous.

“Hold on,” he said, smile tight. “I’m just curious.”

His hand didn’t move.

“Why mechanical?” he asked. “What made you choose it?”

Rey blinked, her expression flat. “I liked building things. Fixing them.”

“Always?” he asked. “Or did something push you into it?”

She looked at him carefully. He knew exactly what he was doing.

Luke nodded, pleased. “That’s a good question. Sometimes it’s just instinct. Sometimes it’s survival.”

Rey’s throat tightened—but her tone stayed smooth.

“I didn’t have anyone who fixed things for me,” she said. “So I figured I’d better learn.”

Ben’s smile faltered just a fraction.

Luke chuckled. “Smart girl. Nothing wrong with survival—it makes the best engineers.”

Rey shrugged. “Sure.”

“You ever think about where you want to go with it?” Ben asked, voice like syrup now. “Eventually?”

Luke brightened. “Ben’s been saying he wants to be more involved with the mentorship side—”

Rey’s stomach turned.

Ben had never mentored anything in his life.

“I’ll figure it out,” she said quickly. “Don’t really need a five-year plan when you’re used to making it through Tuesday.”

Luke blinked, a little startled.

Ben’s eyes narrowed, more focused now.

“You know,” he said, too softly, “there’s a position opening up soon at SoloTech. Systems and design. Entry-level, but it’s in your field.”

Rey scoffed.

She didn’t even try to hide it.

“What are the odds,” she said flatly.

Luke laughed, missing the steel in her voice.

“I love this,” he said. “See? I knew you two would get along.”

Ben’s fingers traced one last slow, invisible circle against her back.

Rey smiled, tight and poisonous.

“Mm,” she said. “Like a house on fire.”

The fucker followed her.

Even after she’d excused herself, even after that polite smile in front of Luke, even after she’d pulled every ounce of control to not break down in front of a crowd—he trailed her like a goddamn shadow.

She felt him stop. Then start again.

And finally—enough.

She whirled on him in the hallway, eyes blazing.

“You’ve got some fuckin’ nerve,” she snapped.

Ben didn’t flinch.

Didn’t blink.

He laughed.

“Me?” he said, hand in his pocket, like he had all the time in the world. “I’m not the one who screams insults to people—what was it? Gaslighting jackass?”

He gave her a mock-wounded look, then grinned wider.

“And…I’m also not the one attending school on my family’s scholarship.”

Rey froze.

Not in shock.

She flushed. Of course he was right—damn him for it.

For making her feel stupid on top of everything else.

She hadn’t pieced it together until that conversation with Luke, standing there like the world’s most oblivious idiot. She could blame the hormones again, but that felt like a cop-out.

Now—she’d felt it.

The name digging into her spine like a brand.

Skywalker–Solo.

The banner. The smirk. The hand at her back.

It had been there the whole time.

She just hadn’t wanted to see it.

But hearing it from him?

From his smug mouth, with that look on his face?

That was rage fuel.

“You’re such a piece of shit,” she hissed.

Ben tilted his head. “You just now figuring that out?”

Rey exhaled sharply, stepping back like she could breathe better without him near. “I didn’t even apply to this scholarship. My professor submitted me—she did it.”

“Sure,” Ben said easily. “But you stayed.”

“I stayed because I worked for it.” Her voice was steady now, shaking only at the edges. “Because I’m learning. Because I deserve to be here.”

She narrowed her eyes. “Not because your name’s on a letterhead.”

Ben just smiled again.

“I dunno,” he said. “I think you look kinda cute standing under my legacy.”

Rey blinked once. Her jaw twitched.

“Don’t flatter yourself.”

Ben shrugged. “I’m not. I’m just letting you know whose building you’re storming out of.”

“I’ll storm out of whatever building I damn well please,” she said, and the drawl in her voice sharpened like a blade. “Especially if you’re in it.”

Rey tried to push past him.

Tried.

But Ben stepped into her path again—smooth, unhurried. Like he had all night. Like she wasn’t even trying.

“You’re disgusting,” she bit out.

He tilted his head, eyes dropping briefly to her mouth, then back up.

“Yeah?” he said, voice low. “Funny how you blush such a pretty pink every time I step closer.”

Rey turned on her heel, furious, ready to end this for good—but his arm shot out, strong and unyielding, catching her by the wrist and twisting her back to face him.

“Rey.” His voice was quiet, dangerous. “We need to talk.”

She yanked her arm, but his grip didn’t budge.

“I’m not fucking backing down this time, sweetheart.”

He smiled—but it wasn’t kind.

It was all teeth. A shark smelling blood.

Rey’s stomach twisted—not from the nausea this time (please God, don’t let him notice, don’t let him see). She shoved his arm off with more force than she meant to.

“There’s nothing to talk about, Solo. I already said everything. You’re a liar, a manipulator, and a coward. You’re gonna be marri—”

“If you say the fucking M word one more time…” he snapped, voice sharp and heated.

Rey flinched, just slightly—already feeling the headache building behind her eyes.

Ben stepped closer again, tone lowering. “I want to talk to you about… you. Me. Us. Nobody else. Got it? Now come—”

“Fuck you!” she hissed. “Like it’s that easy to pretend nothing’s changed? Like you didn’t fucking lie to me?”

He scoffed, rolling his eyes like he was the one who’d been wronged.

Rey felt like screaming.

“I’m sorry, alright? I am,” he said, voice rough now. “I should’ve been honest from the start, but I… I couldn’t…”

He faltered—just for a second. His breath hitched, his eyes darting away like the admission cost him something. But then they were back on her, dark and burning.

“But don’t act like you’re so innocent either, sweetheart,” he muttered, voice laced with bitterness. “Lying about your age. And then leaving with that preacher’s son…”

Rey’s brows knit together, her body going still. “You don’t get to talk about Finn.”

Ben let out a short, incredulous laugh. “Like hell I don’t.”

He took a step forward, sneering now. “I’m just saying—it’s a cute little picture. You, hauling your shit out of that trailer, and him playing knight in shining khakis. Guess he handed out grace with one hand and grabbed your suitcase with the other, huh?”

Rey’s glare could’ve cracked glass.

“Shut. Up.”

Ben smirked down at her, slow and smug, his eyes flicking between hers and her lips—watching every twitch, every breath.

“Doesn’t matter anyway, baby. How you left, who helped you haul out of that dingy little tin can…”

The words slid off his tongue like smoke, like poison disguised as honey.

“You’re exactly where you need to be,” he murmured, leaning in just enough to make her pulse spike.

His voice dropped to a whisper.

“Right fucking here.”

He stepped closer—slow, deliberate.

Not touching her this time. Just closing the distance like it meant nothing. Like she wasn’t already wound tight enough to snap.

Rey held her ground, though her pulse jumped. She hated how close his voice felt in her ears. How warm.

Her lip curled. “You’re getting married.”

Ben’s smile didn’t reach his eyes. “Allegedly.”

“You said you want Finn to be your officiant,” she snapped. “Did you lie about that too, or are you just trying to squeeze in some last-minute cheating before the vows?”

That made him pause. A beat. Then—

He rolled his eyes. “I was messing with you, baby.”

Her eyes blazed. “Do not call me that, you jackass.”

Ben’s jaw ticked. Then—without warning—he reached out and gripped her face. Not hard. Not cruel. Just… firm. His thumb traced the line of her cheek. Possessive. Certain. Like she was already his.

Rey blinked, caught off guard. Her breath hitched before she could stop it.

Ben leaned in just slightly, his voice low and rough.

“We can talk about our situation,” he said, almost gentle. “Like grown adults.”

Then, under his breath—so quick she almost missed it—

“Despite your little juvenile ass lying to me about your age.”

Her spine snapped straight. “Excuse me?”

He didn’t let her pull away. His grip stayed, careful but unmoving.

“My point is—” he murmured, eyes flicking between hers, “—we can find a workaround. My little… predicament.”

She tried to tilt her head, to break his hold.

He didn’t let her.

“Don’t you see, Rey?” His voice was nearly reverent now, like something unholy dressed in silk. “This is fate.”

She scoffed. “No. This is delusion.”

Ben smiled—slow, wicked. His thumb brushed her lower lip, just once.

“Same thing.”

The urge to punch him bloomed in her chest like wildfire.

Rey’s hands twitched. She could almost see it—her knuckles against that smug face, knocking that smile clean off.

And god, wouldn’t that feel good.