Chapter Text
Sometimes late at night, when the bustling noises of New York City die down to a low murmur outside of her apartment window, Rey allows herself a moment to dream. To exist in a world outside of the one she knows, and lose herself in something lighter.
Sometimes, her dreams consist of shapeless, undefined blurs that flee from her memory the second she wakes. Other times, of her worst nightmares. Of waking up in a cold sweat, clammy hands scrambling across the sheets to find them empty and cold around her.
But sometimes…
Sometimes, she dreams of a home. Of dark-haired, freckle-faced children seated before a blazing fireplace, playing a board game as she and her husband hang strands of Christmas lights by the bundle. Sometimes, she dreams of him, too. Of that unnamed, faceless man in her mind's eye, just waiting to be painted by the sharp brushstrokes of reality.
She imagines what he'll be like. Of the way he'll turn to her, smiling, before he steps forward and wraps his arms around her waist, tugging her against his broad chest. She can feel the fabric of his t-shirt beneath her palms as they slide up and over his shoulders to hook around the back of his neck, the warmth of his skin pressed against her inner wrists.
And when her fingers twine together at the base of his hairline—after he's lifted her up and guided her legs to hook around his hips, because there's no possible way she'd be able to reach, otherwise—he finally leans forward to press a kiss to the tip of her nose. The center of her forehead. Each cheekbone. The line of her jaw. Before finally, his lips drift up to find the corner of her mouth, where he presses a soft, inviting kiss that urges her to lean in closer and thread her hands into the hair that tickles the back of her palms.
Their lips meet, fully this time, and she has the barest of moments to taste him before there's a tug on her sleeve, both of them glancing down to find two sets of familiar eyes blinking up at them. They’re his eyes, of course. Her husband's. But they both have her nose. Her mouth, and face shape. His ears.
Their children giggle and squeal at having caught their parents in a moment they really should have had behind closed doors. But the room, and the home, in extension, will be filled with such joy that the moment hardly matters at all. Matters so little that when they break apart, her feet returning gently to the carpet, it will have been forgotten in mere seconds.
Discussions of endless Christmas lists and upcoming family get-togethers fill the air around her, and when she eventually moves to sit on the carpet beside him, falling back until her weight rests comfortably against his shoulder, she doesn't think to fear what's to come. Doesn't count the seconds until the warmth will fade.
Because it's real, and it's lasting, and it's hers.
It's always so cold when she wakes.
Slides from the warm embrace of her bedsheets and pads barefoot into the bathroom, blinking blearily at her reflection in the mirror. A mirror she should bother to clean, now that she thinks of it. There are slight smudges from where her nose has accidentally brushed the glass when she leans in too close to examine the freckles spattered across her cheekbones. The small, barely-there pimple that keeps popping up near her hairline.
From then on, it's back to her daily routine. Brush teeth. Floss. Swish and gargle mouthwash—twice, because why not.
She splashes a handful of icy water into her eyes, rubbing away the lingering crust of sleep. And when her reflection meets her again, more awake this time, she's slightly less disturbed by her appearance.
Though there's still the matter of her hair to deal with. She doesn't know what, exactly, she does in her sleep to get it to look the way it does now. But the point still stands: it's a disaster. Her loose waves have frizzed and kinked in all the wrong places, and she bites back a groan as she fumbles blindly for the shape of her flat iron beneath her sink.
Once she's cleaned up a bit, she moves toward her closet; a small, shoe-box sort of space that would hardly accommodate a small child. Luckily, she's developed a pretty good system of organization, if she does say so herself.
She selects a pair of short black heels from where they're lined along the back wall, then sets to picking a top. She goes with a cream-colored blouse and pencil skirt. It's modest. Plain, even. But she's dressing for work, not a night out. Better to be safe than sorry.
Most days, she has plenty of time to grab breakfast. Either something quick from her own kitchen or a quick visit to her local coffee shop.
This morning, however, she's managing to run a bit behind schedule. Which gives her only enough time to brew and down a quick cup of coffee, then make a mad dash out of her apartment before realizing she's forgotten her briefcase entirely.
She returns for it, then slips off her heels and carries them in one hand in favor of being able to run without the fear of falling flat on her face.
She catches a cab outside her apartment complex, running too far behind to try walking. The cab driver doesn't understand her accent the first few times she gives him the address, but eventually catches on and enters it into his GPS. She does her best to ignore his grumbling as the cab starts to move, the driver painfully heavy-footed when it comes to breaking.
It forces her to focus on staring out the front window for the entirety of the ride since she's not quite in the mood to vomit all over her own lap. The cab driver would probably yell at her, too. If she can avoid it, she plans to.
By the time the breaks squeal for the final time, Rey is green in the face, her throat working on a thick swallow as she pays the driver and steps wobbly out of the vehicle. It speeds away before she's so much as closed the door completely, spraying her heels with stagnant gray street water that nearly causes her to gag up her non-breakfast.
Bile from a painfully empty stomach burns at the back of her throat as she stomps into the lobby of her building, the elevator on the far side of the room thankfully empty and waiting on the ground floor.
That is, until a man steps out of the hallway to her right, arms full of a stack of files and coffee cup.
Rey has only a moment to observe him—the sleek raven locks that fall in soft waves just below the nape of his neck; the noble curve of his long nose; the broad shoulders that seem to be double the width of her own, before he's stepping into the elevator meant for her and leaning down to press a floor number.
Rey speeds up, lifting her hand and calling out to try and alert him to her presence. But the man is far too occupied with his own efforts to bother tossing a glance in her direction. Instead, he leans forward again, no doubt pressing the close-door button as Rey lets out a sound that borders dangerously close to a sob.
The metal doors begin to slide closed, the man sealed away behind them as Rey's stomach twists with rage. And only at the very last moment—when she's broken into a full-on run to try and shove her hand between the sliding panels—does he look up, a startled look on his face before he disappears completely.
Rey screeches, the sound muffled by the press of her palm against her lips. Frustrations boils, reaching a peak, and she's forgotten to care who's watching when she gives the doors a swift kick with the toe of her heel, hissing at the sharp jolt of pain.
With her luck, she wouldn’t be all too surprised if she broke a toe.
By the time she catches the next elevator, she's running egregiously late. Thankfully, her stand-in boss for the past few months is usually pretty lenient. But she's meant to be meeting with the new manager of the branch this morning. An outside hire, apparently. Came from a senior management position at another publishing firm across town.
She doesn't know much about him, other than the fact that his last name is Solo.
His first name might have been B—something. Blake? No. It was longer. Brandon? Benjamin?
Oh, yes. That was it. Benjamin. Benjamin Solo.
As the elevator begins to rise up to the fifteenth floor, she imagines a middle-aged man with graying hair and an expensive, personally-tailored suit, peering down at her with a condescending sneer. Joy. She can hardly wait to introduce herself.
The doors slide open with a soft ding, finally delivering her to her place of work. And she has half a mind to run to the bathroom to fix herself up before—
Rey turns, smacking face-first into something warm and painfully solid, so hard that she momentarily fears her nose may be broken. Staggering back with a small yelp, she blinks hard as her hand comes up to cup her nose, which throbs almost as bad as if she’d run straight into a slab of concrete.
But when she looks up, expecting to find a newly erected wall smack in the middle of the entryway, the first thing she registers is the sight of a tall, broad frame.
Second, there are two large palms splayed out against her shoulders, warm and squeezing slightly into taut muscle.
Third, thick black waves of hair that curl around large, round ears.
Hazel eyes, and a strong, pointed jaw that hangs open slightly as he regards her. He, of course, being the very man she'd screeched at from the lobby as he boarded, then promptly stole her elevator.
Rey's expression hardens, and she hardly recognizes the tone of her own voice as she bites out, "You,"
The man blinks, clearly caught off guard. "Me?"
His voice, low and rough, only manages to throw her off for half a second before she regains her figurative footing, snorting derisively.
"Yes, you. You stole my elevator! Just before, in the lobby!"
He arches a single dark brow, and it's then that she notices the two small beauty marks stamped just above his brow bone.
She fumes at the realization that he's smirking slightly, the surprise having melted from his features like wax down the sides of a candle.
She has half the mind to slap it off his face.
"I'm not quite sure how I could’ve stolen something you didn't own."
Rey physically battles with her temper to bite back the scream clawing its way up her throat.
"Really?” she deadpans instead, crossing her arms tight over her chest, “Because it’s not as if I was running towards it, calling out for you to hold the door for me. Very loudly, I might add. But instead of being a decent human being, you pretended not to hear me and let the doors close in my face!"
The man considers her, small smile having dissipated in the wake of her words. And after a moment, he purses his lips, assessing, or perhaps, preparing an apology.
Rey waits less-than-patiently, tapping the toe of her heel against the ground in anticipation. But before the apology ever leaves his mouth, he shrugs, then drops his hands from her shoulders and strides past her without another word.
Rey whirls around, eyes attempting to light his back on fire with the overwhelming blaze of her fury. If he feels it, he doesn't show as much, simply straightens the cuffs of his sleeves and disappears behind a corner, leaving her to gape at the space he'd previously occupied.
Rey only registers that her nails have begun to dig crescent-shaped slices in her palm when sharp pain shoots up through her nerve-endings.
She releases her fist, shaking it out, then stomps toward her office, resolved to wipe all thoughts of the unnamed arsehole from her mind.
Unfortunately, just as soon as the door to her office swings open, there's already someone occupying the seat behind her desk, legs crossed at the knee as his hands busy themselves with a familiar briefcase and stack of files.
Rey's jaw goes slack, and there's something about the way her stomach dips that threatens to send another wave of bile to the back of her throat.
The same man with broad shoulders and impossibly long legs takes his time in acknowledging her presence, straightening the lapels of his suit coat before he casts a backward glance in her direction, dark eyes alight with barely-concealed amusement.
"Ah," he drawls, that same insufferable smirk gracing his full lips. "Miss Niima. Ben Solo. It's a pleasure to finally meet you."