Thread by @delia_pavorum

At first, Ben Solo thought he was dreaming.

https://twitter.com/ceraldi_carleen/status/1231727331263139840

This was the way most of his dreams started, after all.

A warm, soft body writhing underneath him. A silken spill of hair between his fingers and on his pillow. Hot, sweet breath wafting against the underside of his jaw in an erotic caress.

Granted, this particular body was a bit more angular than the ones he usually dreamt of.

And her soft moans sounded a bit more like a snuffling piglet than he'd expected.

Her breath also wasn't that minty, or sweet, and was instead reminiscent of the last dregs of an old pint.

She burrowed herself deeper into his side - beside him, he realized, not underneath, but slotted in so tight he must have been crushing her - and smacked her lips together.

Loudly.

The last vestiges of sleep were relinquished as he understood that this was no dream at all.

It was Rey.

She was back.

Rey Johnson, Apartment 2C, had been a decent enough neighbour for the time they’d known each other.

Sure, her ideals were a little too socialist and her friends a little too rowdy and self-serving, but she was kind and helpful and watered his plants while he was away.

It was truly all he required from those with which the only thing he had in common was geographic proximity.

...Of course, it helped that she was devastatingly pretty - tall, lean, and lithe, with a controlled wildness to her that he could only describe as socialized ferality.

In her every day demeanour she came across as friendly, outgoing, resourceful, caring.

But there were glimpses he caught when she didn’t know he was looking.

The way she tore into her letters with her teeth, standing at the mail boxes.

The way she could balance two sandwiches, a coffee, a water bottle, and no less than three pastries using all available appendages and limbs.

The way she looked at him sometimes, eyes hot, one straight, perfect white tooth snagged on a full lower lip.

And, of course, the way she’d been breaking into his apartment at least once a week for the last six weeks and getting into his bed. With him.

Plastering herself against his body, fully clothed and snoring in his ear, an aura of pure vodka emanating from her overheated form.

It had all began with a key.

Ben had been planning to be away for a bit - a week, tops.

His dad's old cottage had needed a clear-out and he'd wanted it done properly. A messy task, sure, and emotional, but one Ben felt like he'd owed his old man.

Especially considering all he'd done for him, in the end.

While he was gone, he would need someone to collect the mail, water the plants - general upkeep to ensure the place still looked lived in.

His place.

It wasn't much, he knew. Different than what he was used to, certainly.

But a fresh start had meant exactly that. No more doormen and penthouses. No more car service or 24-hour gym. No more First Order benefits or subsidies.

No more Kylo Ren.

There were perks, though. Anonymity. Freedom.

A cute neighbour willing to help out when needed.

So he'd given her his key and taken his trip. Said goodbye to his dad in all the ways he'd known how and made peace in a way he hadn't been able to while he was still around.

And when he'd come home, weary but content, and his plants had been thriving and his mail had been sitting in a neat pile on his counter organized by category and his most recent issue of the New Yorker had only been mildly tampered with—

(A single, sticky fingerprint, more than likely the raspberry residue of a certain neighbour's favourite morning pastry.)—

He'd just been so pleased to have someone so trustworthy around and, perhaps subconsciously, to sense the change in atmosphere of this space that hadn't quite felt like a home, not yet, but maybe was starting to just a bit—

That he hadn't even thought of asking for his key back.

The first "break-in" had happened about three weeks later.

Ben hadn’t even been sleeping.

Lying in bed, novel in hand, he’d been re-reading the same page over and over again when he heard the telltale click of a key turning in his lock.

Immediately all his senses were on alert. His body tensed, muscles going so taut they ached.

He put his book down carefully, keeping a wary eye on the bedroom door.

The intruder, whoever it was, wasn’t even attempting to be quiet. That gave him pause.

In fact - he listened carefully, ears straining. They appeared to be...talking to themselves?

Ben could hear low mumbles interspersed with the occasional sharp outburst, as the world’s noisiest and clumsiest robber fumbled through the dark entryway and hallway.

Finally, a figure stumbled in the doorway, illuminated by the barest sliver of moonlight and his breath caught.

It took only a second for him to register the familiarity of that figure and another half second for him to recognize her entirely.

“Rey?”

In response, she let out an unintelligible grunt and leaned forward until the momentum took her feet into the room.

Two steps, three, reminiscent of the reanimated trudge of a Frankensteinian creation, and next thing he knew she had joined him in the bed, knees first, followed swiftly by face.

Then, the snores began.

Ben was immobile.

Even if he had wanted to move, to prod her, to say something, he was physically incapable of doing so for an indeterminate amount of time, because

it was Rey

and she was

in his bed.

Never in his wildest fantasies - well, that wasn’t quite true, was it, particularly lately - but still, statistically he had assumed the chances of his neighbour ending up in bed with him were quite slim.

The snoring, alcohol-infused figure to his right begged to differ, however

“Rey.” He found his voice again, finally. “Rey.”

“Mmf?” A muffled groan emerged.

“Rey, you—“ What, of his myriad of options, was he going to say? “Rey, you’re drunk.”

𝘕𝘪𝘤𝘦 𝘰𝘯𝘦. The self-deprecation came swiftly and mercilessly.

“How’d’you know?” came the semi-coherent retort.

“Because,” he whispered - why was he whispering? - “Because you’re in my bed.”

“Mmm,” she assented, burrowing deeper into the covets. “S’nice.” The snoring commenced anew within seconds.

Torn, Ben looked down at her, cocooned into his duvet, a small puddle of drool already forming near her mouth.

He made his decision in a heartbeat.

Heaving a sigh, he slid out from under the covers and circled the bed.

Grasping a slim ankle in one hand, he removed her shoe with the other. Then, he did the same with the other foot.

Pulling the duvet cover out from underneath her took a bit more effort, as the dead weight of her inebriated form may as well have been an impenetrable boulder.

Eventually, he managed to get her under the covers, before grabbing his own pillow and making his way to the couch.

He watched as the grey shadows played at the ceiling until they transformed into the orange shimmer of dawn.

When she'd woken up the next morning, she had been the picture of embarrassed, hungover chagrin - raspy-voiced, hair wild, face imprinted with pillow marks.

He'd listened to her apologies with bemused grace, understanding why she was sorry, unable to convey why she shouldn't be.

She’d offered to return his key and he’d blinked, recalling that, obviously, she had his key.

He had refused, of course - who knew when he’d need her again? - and she’d left with shoes in hand and the promise that this particular mishap would never repeat itself.

Except that it did.

The following week, when the key turned in the lock and Rey stumbled into the apartment, Ben was sound asleep.

He didn't hear her kick off her shoes in the entryway.

Didn't hear her drop her bag on the floor.

Didn't hear her coat go flying across his hallway.

Didn't even feel her as she slowly crawled up the length of his bed, before collapsing next to him.

It was only when her head bumped the underside of his chin, clacking his teeth together, that he was jolted into semi-consciousness.

The awareness of her long, lean body huddled deeply into his, burrowed tightly against his chest, rendered him fully awake.

As before, he was immobile. Frozen in place by surprise and something more—

A reluctance, perhaps, to disrupt whatever magical spell had been cast in his life that resulted in a beautiful woman in his bed every seven or eight days.

Still, he could recognize it was strange enough - borderline inappropriate enough - to require some sort of action on his part, if not on hers.

He gently jostled her. She moaned and curled deeper into him, the easily identifiable scent of beer wafting mildly towards him.

His inconvenient body mistook her moan and proximity for something more and he discreetly shifted away from her, jostling with more urgency.

“Mm—wha?” Her head lifted and she blinked drowsily.

He cleared his throat, uncomfortable, as though he were the intruder in her bed.

“Uh, you, uh—“ He cleared his throat again. “You’re back.”

She blinked once more, peering down at him disorientedly.

Suddenly her eyes widened. “Shit!”

She scrambled away from him and sat up, dropping her head into her hands. “Oh, shit. Crap. Bollocks. I’m so sorry.”

She looked at him then, face conveying mortification and shame, as she shook her head at herself.

“I’m so sorry,” she said again, working her way backwards off the bed. “I don’t know why I keep doing this. I’m so embarrassed...” She trailed off, looking around. “My shoes, fuck.”

He got up then, too, and they gathered her scattered possessions - her, apologetic and miserable, him maddeningly silent, incapable of conjuring up the reassurance she needed.

With one last apology, she fled.

The next morning, he woke up to find his key slipped under the door.

For the next eight days, Ben debated how he was going to return the key to her without saying something humiliating like “My bed is your bed” or “You’re welcome to sleep with me any time.”

It didn’t help that she guiltily avoided him at all costs.

At most, she’d smile at him when they crossed paths entering or exiting their apartments, but overall communication was stifled and limited.

So, for the next eight days, he held onto his key.

But would leave his door unlocked at nights.

On night nine, Ben awoke to the feeling of Rey - he knew her now, her shape, her smell, the way she moved and even breathed - sliding in beside him.

He lay quiet and still until she settled and her snores commenced.

He covered her and lay back down, watching the even rise and fall of her back as she slept. Then, he closed his eyes.

When he opened them again, the tepid grey light of early dawn shone through the slats of his crooked blinds.

The sheets beside him were rumpled. And empty.

When they bumped into each other in the hall three days later, he said nothing about it and neither did she. They exchanged pleasantries, she offered him a donut that he refused, and they entered their separate homes.

Four nights after that, he woke up with his arm around her.

She had curled herself into his body, breathing deeply and steadily, the cadence of her snores indicating that she was already dreaming.

She was fully clothed, as she always was, and smelled faintly of hops, as she frequently did, and he found himself aching in a peculiar way.

A sharp-soft tenderness, centred deep in his chest, one that was nameless and unfamiliar, but still caused him to wrap his arms tighter around her and draw her even closer.

Caused him to tilt his head just so and leave his lips pressed into her lily-fragrant hair.

He didn't know why she drank every week. Didn't know if it was with friends or alone. If it was after work or after midnight.

Didn't know why it would inevitably lead her to his home, his bed.

All he knew was that, when she was there, she was his.

And he would protect her at all costs, from whatever demons chased her into his arms.

The next morning, he awoke once more to empty arms and an empty bed.

When he caught her leaving her apartment for work that day—or, when he contrived a scenario to leave at the same time, having waited by his door for almost twenty minutes until he heard her door open—

She jolted in surprise at his sudden appearance, then greeted him with a smile that didn't quite reach her eyes.

"Hullo there," she said, locking her door behind her. "Off to work?" She shifted her bag up her arm and over her shoulder, keys jangling nervously in her hands.

"Er, yeah." He no longer worked, thanks to a decent settlement from his previous company, but that wasn't something they had ever discussed and it was easier to go with it than explain. "You?"

"Yup," she replied, that same toothy, uncharacteristic grin that rang a little false.

𝘠𝘰𝘶 𝘸𝘦𝘳𝘦 𝘪𝘯 𝘮𝘺 𝘣𝘦𝘥 𝘢𝘨𝘢𝘪𝘯 𝘭𝘢𝘴𝘵 𝘯𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵, he thought desperately, wanting to yell at her and shake her, to hold her and kiss her. 𝘋𝘰 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘯 𝘬𝘯𝘰𝘸? 𝘈𝘳𝘦 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘰𝘬𝘢𝘺? 𝘈𝘳𝘦 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘩𝘪𝘥𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘴𝘰𝘮𝘦𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨?

𝘋𝘰 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘬𝘯𝘰𝘸 𝘐 𝘸𝘢𝘯𝘵 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦? his thoughts continued to ramble. 𝘛𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘪𝘵'𝘴 𝘰𝘬𝘢𝘺? 𝘛𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘴𝘩𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥 𝘫𝘶𝘴𝘵 𝘴𝘵𝘢𝘺?

He didn't say a word of what he wanted, though. Instead he regarded her, his gaze too intense, his silence too heavy.

She shifted uncomfortably, swallowing hard and looking away.

"I—" she began, then cut herself off. She looked up at him, eyes searching his. He kept his face intentionally blank. She cleared her throat. "Have a good day, Ben."

"You, too, Rey," he said as she walked away.

The next two visits followed a similar pattern.

She would enter his apartment late - even though he tried to stay up, she would outlast him - and crawl into his bed with whatever she was wearing from her day—first it was jeans, then a dress with tights that tempted his sanity.

He was attuned enough to her entrance now that he would awaken as soon as her knee hit the bed.

He stayed still and silent while she crawled up, usually carefully and somewhat quiet, the occasional belligerent grumble as she got settled.

Within seconds, she'd be sound asleep.

Neither time did she seem entirely sober and he began to worry for the 𝘰𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳 days - the ones where she might be drinking and 𝘯𝘰𝘵 coming back—to him.

How did she get home those days?

How often did she even do this?

Was it always him that she went to?

Only him?

Or did she go elsewhere, too? Find other arms and beds to occupy?

He found to his surprise that the answers didn't matter, aside from the overreaching concern for her safety and protection.

𝘞𝘢𝘴 𝘴𝘩𝘦 𝘰𝘬𝘢𝘺?

It was the one question he kept coming back to, the only answer he needed.

The nights she was in his bed, he took a disconsolate comfort in knowing that, at least for that brief time, he would make sure that the answer was yes.

So he held her. And stroked her hair. And allowed her to snuggle deeply into his body. He covered her and comforted her and he tried to stay awake for her, to catch her before she left, to tell her it was okay and that she could stay.

But each night, sleep would overtake him.

And each morning, she would be gone.

And if they ran into each other during the week in the hallway or the stairwell, he would act like they didn't spend one night a week in bed together, in a lover's embrace without being lovers, and she would do the same—

He would behave himself, cordial and friendly and polite, as though he didn't know the way her face softened in sleep or the feel of her body in the early dawn or the way she favoured her left side and tucked an arm under his pillow and a hand against his chest—

And they would say their goodbyes, move on and go about their days, leaving languishing trails of longing and all the words they didn't say shimmering in their wake.

Which brought them to the present.

It was visit number seven. Ben had been exhausted that night, a week’s worth of nights spent waiting to hear the door open catching up to him, that he had fallen into a deep sleep as soon as his head had hit the pillow.

Her presence had infiltrated his dreams at first, subconscious mind going to the faceless, buxom dream girls of his adolescence, before quickly shifting to the familiarity of more recent fantasies: of litheness and grace and a pillowy bottom resting in his hand.

He relished the feel of her tucked into him so tightly, slotted in a way that felt perfect like nothing else ever had.

But, as he slowly shifted awake, he knew that this transient habit, this temporary madness, couldn’t last forever.

And his worry for her only grew each week.

It was time to talk.

“Rey,” he said gently into her hair. “Rey...” He gave in to temptation and kissed where his lips rested, pressing them in the fine locks.

She stirred and groaned, burying her face into the pillow.

He rubbed her back, settled his hand into the hair at the nape of her neck and gave a light squeeze.

“Rey,” he said again. “Wake up.”

“Hmm?” She lifted her head, eyes still closed.

“Wake up, come on.” He palpated his fingertips gently, massaging the base of her skull.

Her eyes blinked open and he caught a flash of guilt in them, illuminated by the thin sliver of moonlight coming in through the blinds, before they widened in surprise and she gasped.

“Ben!” she cried softly. “Oh, no, not again?” She went to move away but he held her still.

“No,” he said calmly, “lie down. Stay. Let’s talk about this.”

She was already shaking her head. “I don’t understand, the key, I gave it back—“

He stopped her gently, a thumb resting over her lips as his other four fingers cupped her jaw.

“The door‘s been unlocked at nights.” He paused, searching her eyes, before adding meaningfully: “As you know.”

Her body deflated, demeanour changing. She looked exhausted. And young.

“Why haven’t you said anything?” Her tone turned accusatory. “Why don’t you lock it, dammit?”

It was as good as a confession.

“Why do you keep coming?” he countered.

“It’s an accident,” she responded, too quickly. “Our doors are identical, I’m drunk—“

“I don’t buy it,” he interjected softly.

She looked away, biting her lip. Her breath started to come out through her nose in quick, shallow gusts.

He watched as she drew further into herself. Watched, in dawning horror, as her eyes welled with tears.

“No,” he said quickly. “No, no...” His hand hovered in mid-air, wanting to touch her, unsure if it was allowed to, without the guise of sleep for protection.

“You act like you know me,” she snapped, swiping at her face. “When no one actually does. Least of all you.”

She was lashing out now, a wounded animal, manifesting that ferality he’d always sensed just below the surface.

“I know...” What did he know? He would have to tread carefully or risk losing her for good.

“I know you like to help,” he said finally. “To be useful. I know you’re organized, but not especially neat.”

He paused for a beat as she regarded him warily, but her silence bolstered him.

“I know your heart. Its kindness, its capacity for love.”

“I see it in the way you treat your friends,” he continued. “The way you treat...me.”

Her lips had parted, the tears spilling over.

“I...don’t know why you drink.” His voice was a low baritone in the silent room. “I don’t know why you...need this.” He gestured between them.

“I don’t know what demons you face.” His eyes searched hers, back and forth, that ache he always had for her feeling tender and raw and cracked wide open.

“But I know you, Rey. That’s why I keep the door unlocked. And why I‘ll keep it unlocked until you dont need me to anymore.”

She reacted to his words as though he had personally drawn the air from her lungs.

Blinking rapidly, her chest heaved with the effort of maintaining her composure.

As her breaths turned into gasps and her eyes dissolved into tears, his self control snapped.

Swiftly, he drew her into his arms, cupping her head and guiding her towards him.

Her sobs sounded like they were wrenched from her soul - deep, crackling, and grief-stricken in a way that tormented him.

Stroking her back, he shushed in her hair, brushing kisses along her ear.

She pulled at his shirt, tried to crawl deeper into his lap, buried her face in his neck.

"I—I—" Choking on her words, she tried to speak through her tears as coughing sobs consumed her.

"Shh," he soothed, voice rough. "Whatever it is, I'm here. Whatever you need, I'm here."

He held her close, rocked her tightly back and forth, hardly even aware of what he was doing. He just needed to feel her, to draw her pain from her body through even, repetitive strokes down her back.

Eventually, her tears subsided into the occasional sniffle.

The tremors stopped and she was able to take in a proper breath.

He huffed along with her, matching his breaths with hers, encouraging her to inhale and exhale deeply without using words.

She caught on and followed his lead, in and out, deep and even.

He stayed silent, like he had all the times before when he probably should have spoken.

This time, however, the silence felt right. It didn't feel like it was full of things left unsaid.

It felt like patience, and something more.

His chest throbbed in tune with his heart.

After a few more measured breaths timed with his own, she finally spoke.

"I got… bad news. A couple months ago. I—my past is… murky," she finally settled on a word. "I've been okay with that, for the most part. But recently I've been thinking of the future."

She paused, her posture indicating that she maybe felt awkward, or uncomfortable. He loosened his grip on her slightly, giving her an out.

She settled more firmly into his lap.

Tonight she had worn a soft, black sweater with leggings. She smelled like fresh laundry and soap.

He inhaled and closed his eyes, resting his cheek on her head, and he waited.

"The future… like—" She swallowed. "Like kids, maybe. One day." She paused again, lost in thought, and then shook her head. "Or whatever. So I decided to do one of those—those ancestry things."

He nodded, painfully aware of the murkiness of ancestry.

"I found out—my…" Her lips trembled and she pressed them together tightly. "My lineage is not good. It's not something I'm proud of. And it's not something I'm keen to pass on. It was better to believe I was—nobody."

She sighed shakily.

"Better to be nobody than to have my worst fears confirmed," she ended. "To know for sure that, instead of being—whoever I want, that I'm—I'm something wrong. Something—" Her voice cracked. "Ugly."

He was already shaking his head, but he sensed she needed to finish, so he refrained from speaking.

"That first night—that I—" She reached out and lightly touched his pillow, lost in memory. "It was an honest mistake. Our keys are identical. Our doors. I was—so wasted."

She shook her head, chagrined.

"And it felt…" Her voice trailed off as she looked wonderingly at him. "Even without you there, it just felt—"

She took a deep breath, as though needing to compose herself, before continuing.

"It felt right."

"After that, there were no more mistakes," she admitted. "At first, I thought I could get over it. That I wouldn't need the feel of your bed, the—the smell of you—"

Even in the moonlight, he could see her face redden at the admission.

"I tried to hold out," she continued. "To be okay with—being alone. Then I thought, maybe if I drank again, it would just—happen." She laughed, mirthlessly. "Like I could drink myself into making the same mistake and the accountability would no longer be on me."

"But even drunk, I knew. I knew and I—I did it anyway," she ended in a mortified groan, head dropping to his shoulder.

"And when you finally stopped leaving the bed and you—you stayed and you held me, I thought…" She shook her head. "It was like a drug. An honest-to-god drug."

"Oh, Rey." His voice was choked with emotion, heart cracking with the weight of her admission.

"Pathetic," she agreed, bitterly. "A grown woman. Drinking herself into a stupor and hoping her weekly home invasions would be excused, ignored, or forgotten. When we would see each other during the day and you wouldn't say anything, I thought I was getting away with something."

"That if I—I was leaving before you woke up and you were acting like you didn't even know, that maybe we could pretend it was just a—" She broke off, words catching in her throat. "That it would only be something that happened at night. In the morning, the spell would be broken."

"But obviously—" She lifted her head now, moved away from him. He let her go, though his hands lingered on her arms. "—Obviously it was not sustainable. And I'm sorry. I'm sorry for interrupting your sleep, for breaking into your home, for bringing you into my absurd trauma—"

"Don't apologize," he interrupted firmly. "Don't ever apologize. I wish I had known. I wish I had known from the first day. I would have—" He bit off a curse, shook his head.

"Don't you see?" he said finally, gesturing around them both. "Don't you see, Rey?"

"See—see what?" she asked, looking around and then up at him, wide-eyed and confused.

“It never mattered,” he said in a raw whisper. “The reason. It never mattered what it was or why. It was just about you—what you needed.”

His voice dropped another octave. “It was only ever about you, Rey.”

She let out a sob at his words and brought her hands up to his face, touching his cheek, stroking his hair.

He leaned in to her touch, closing his eyes for a brief moment. When he opened them again, he was resolute.

“You are not your past,” he said firmly. “And you are not your family. You are more than the blood that runs through your veins. Who you are is determined by who you want to be. Who you ultimately become."

The irony was not lost on him; the words that rang true for both of them.

He brought his hand up, covering hers with his own.

"Your strength is in knowing that your power lies with you. And no one else." Bringing his other hand up, he turned her cheek gently, forcing her to look at him. "Okay?"

She nodded shakily, looking back and forth between his eyes. She was still teary, her nose red, but a small smile quavered on her lips and then she tucked her bottom lip under one perfect white tooth in a familiar way and—

She tugged him towards her and kissed him.

He was momentarily stunned, motionless. Then he came alive.

Returning her kiss ardently, he wrapped his arms around her tightly, drawing her even closer until her body was flush with his. He felt her hands squeeze his cheeks and he tried unsuccessfully to control his smile.

He kissed her for all her joys and her sorrows.

For all the nights she’d been in his arms and more so for all the ones she hadn’t.

He kissed her for the obstacles she had conquered and the ones yet to come.

And when she drew away, he smiled at her gently and she smiled back.

And then they kissed again.

For new beginnings.