Work Text:
“Oh God, seriously?”
Rey tosses her box cutter onto the table in frustration. Only a corner of cardboard has been pulled back, but she can already tell what book it is by the thick, matte black cover.
Poe glances over her shoulder, coffee in one hand and paperwork in the other.
“It’s supposed to be the ‘it’ title of the season, so don’t complain just yet. By mid-December, you’ll probably be thanking your lucky stars that the distributor sent us-“ He frowns, flipping through his invoice until he gets to the particular line item. His eyebrows fly up to his hairline. “-s-seven hundred and forty two copies! Where do they think we are, New York? We’ve never sold seven hundred and forty two copies of anything!”
“Seven hundred and forty-two? But that means…” Finn scans the side of every box in the delivery, then nods. “Yep. It’s the entire pallet.”
Rey snorts. “Seven hundred and forty two copies of this asshole’s emo poetry.”
She wrenches two copies of this mask [i] Bare from their corrugated carton and starts a stack next to the computer. Aesthetically, the book is beautiful, heavy, photo-weight paper classically bound in black with silver gilding, all wrapped in a matte dust jacket that grips her fingers just enough. The cover boasts only the pretentious title in twenty-four point glossy Helvetica on the front, with a greyscale author’s photo on the back. From what she can see, he looks around thirty and artistically dishevelled, with his shirt pulled up just enough to cover half of his face.
“How much to do want to bet that this guy’s parents didn’t name him Kylo Ren,” Finn comments as he cracks open another box. “I mean, what kind of mom looks down at her newborn baby and thinks, ‘Yeah, I want him to be a pretentious poet when he grows up.’”
“She should have at least taught him how to wear shirts properly. The rate he’s going, he’s going to stretch out all of his turtlenecks.” Poe flips a copy open and skims the author’s biography. “Hmmm. Apparently he’s local.”
“Local local?” Rey grabs her own copy off the table and flips to the back. Sure enough, amidst all the vagaries, academic accomplishments, and accolades to the family dog, she spots the short blurb. “’Mr. Ren enjoys a quiet life in the small neighbourhood of D’Qar with his pet cat and extensive collection of exotic wines.’ Seriously? Is this guy for real? No one here drinks exotic wine.”
“Speak for yourself,” Finn mutters, skimming the book’s contents. “I happen to enjoy the occasional fifty year old merlot by the fireside.”
“Sure,” she deadpans. “I know for a fact the only things you drink are PBRs and CapriSuns with vodka.”
“Speaking of drink,” Poe interjects, “Rey, I need you to start refilling the tins.”
She glances up at the clock. 8:46. “Of course, boss,” she says. “Don’t have too much fun unpacking this stuff without me.”
Finn’s groans echo down the hall as she exits the stockroom, passes the bathrooms, and enters the tiny kitchenette tucked behind the counter. She flips a switch to turn on the hot water then, humming to herself, she fills a mug with clean spoons from the dishwasher and checks all of the jars of various sugars. Content with their contents, she moves to the shelves of tea that line the far wall.
Each tin has its own colour coded label. Black for black, obviously, and green for green. Sky blue is white tea, red is roiboos, yellow for tisanes, and purple for oolong all arranged in a beautiful spectrum across the wall. She pulls down her favourite and tugs on the lid. Instantly, the room is filled with the spicy aroma of oranges, cinnamon, and cloves, and her mouth waters.
Wasting no time, she checks all the most popular teas to make sure they are at an adequate level. Those that are running a bit low she slides down the counter, their aluminum bottoms rattling against the stained pine, to be filled by the bulk bags in the cupboards below.
There's a hiss as the water starts boiling behind her. She hums to herself and darts to the back room just long enough to unlock the safe and grab the floats for both tills. Poe and Finn are still receiving the massive shipment of ominous black books, and even Poe is starting to look tired of loading row after row of them onto the carts. Part of the joy of their work is the variety, the thrill of discovery that runs down the spine when a box of brand new stock is opened.
It’s a reality of the holiday season to receive mass shipments of the same title and, sure, the stock is way easier to put away, but it’s still disappointing when the distributor’s bias and the publisher’s promotion results in mass amounts of the projected ‘hit’ of the year, with no independent projects or authors in sight.
On her way back from the stockroom, Rey lovingly glances up at the store’s motto, painted in scrawling script over the door:
Every new book is a favourite just waiting to be discovered.
“Hey Finn,” she calls to the back as she unlocks the brass cash register. “Maybe this one is your new favourite that’s just waiting to be discovered.”
His sharp bark of laughter echoes down the hall.
Mr. and Mrs. White are already waiting outside when she unlocks the door. She greets them with a smile and a quick “hello,” ushering them in even as the crisp winter air whispers into the cozy store. The elderly couple shuffles over to the stand of magazines in the corner as Rey goes back behind the counter and starts a pot of classic Earl Grey.
The scent of tea and bergamot coaxes Poe out from the backroom, with Finn following not too long after, wheeling a cart of familiar matte black books behind him. He pulls the stock over to the front window and dutifully begins piling them in a 'wishing well' shape, staggering them row by row. Rey snorts.
“How festive,” she comments. “A big black pyre right by the door.”
He shrugs. “I could add some lights.”
The tiny brass bell above the door chimes, signaling the arrival another customer, then another. Soon the store is bustling with the muted yet excited chatter of Christmas shoppers, lists in hand, thumbing through books by John Green and Paulo Coelho and Stephen King and Nora Roberts.
Rey's heart swells from the bustle as she makes London Fogs behind the counter. They're the holiday special, one free with each copy of the newest JK Rowling book, and she tops each mug of foamy milk with a special pinch of edible glitter for a touch of magic.
The reading nook by the oak trimmed bay window is already occupied by two of their regulars, Luke Skywalker and his twin sister Leia. Strangely enough, they're both reading from Kylo Ren's pretentious poetry book and their faces bear the same furrowed expression. Grabbing two mugs of tea, Rey heads over to them, depositing the beverages on the coffee table as she squats down on a beanbag.
Leia peeks over her book and frowns. “Oh thank you, Rey, but I'm not really interested in that new Harry Potter book.”
Rey smiles. “Don't worry, they're on the house, and made with that double bergamot blend from Seattle that you like so much.”
“Oh, well in that case-”
Luke’s the first to try his drink, murmuring with pleasure as he sips at the sweet vanilla foam. Rey suppresses a choke of laugher when he pulls the mug away, revealing a mess of glitter caught up in his moustache.
“Luke, dear-“ Leia coughs and rubs a finger on her upper lip.
“Oh did I-?” He rubs at his face with his sleeve which only serves to transfer the sparkles to his wool sweater. “Oh my. This tea is must more exciting than I anticipated.”
Humming to herself, Leia sips her drink as well. Rey sits next to her with baited breath, eyes trained on the older woman as she takes slow, methodical slurps.
“Oh Rey,” she sighs. Her eyes close, pleasure evident on her face. “It's transcendent.”
Rey practically purrs. Leia's been coming to the shop for as long as Rey's been working there, and for years before that as well. Poe claims she's a secret billionaire and Finn thinks she's some sort of bored intellectual, but whatever her occupation is, she loves tea. A compliment from her is high praise indeed.
“Doesn't it remind you of the lattes from-” Luke frowns mid-thought.
“-that tiny shop in Yevin? Yes, it does, very much so. Oh Rey, you would have loved this little shop. Hundreds of teas lining the wall, and no electric kettle in sight. It was run by this family with six children at least, and the father would always start the day by chopping all the wood he would need to keep the water boiling for as long as the shop was open. Luke and I went there for one of his research trips when we were younger.” Leia smiles fondly at her brother. “It's one of my favourite memories.”
“Yevin,” Luke repeats, letting the sounds linger on his tongue. “Yevin. That was when you were pregnant, correct?”
“Yes, pregnant and overseas. Han would have had a fit, had he known.”
Rey shifts awkwardly, causing the beans to rustle beneath her. Leia smiles, her brown eyes still hazy and far away. “Sorry, Han was my husband. He was often out of town, so I spent a lot of time with Luke on his research trips.”
“Sounds fascinating.” Rey could honestly sit on the ground and listen to them reminisce all day, but she can feel Poe's eyes boring a hole in the back of her head, so she stands instead. “But I do have other customers to help. Can't let them know that you two are my favourite, I'm afraid they would all cry.”
“Well, we can’t have that.” Leia leans back in the creaky old armchair, her hands cradling the mug. “Thank you for the drinks, my dear.”
Luke nods, but his nose is already back in the book. His bright blue eyes are scanning the pages, darting from word to word so quickly, Rey can’t help but blurt out, “- is it good?”
His eyes pause for a second, and then quickly lock with Leia’s. The older woman chews her lip and gives him an almost imperceptible nod, just a bob of her chin, really. Clearing his throat, he responds, “Yeah, it’s pretty good. Not Shakespeare, of course, but not bad.”
Rey frowns at the matte black book, its dark exterior masking the secrets within. She wasn’t really interested in reading it before, but the Skywalkers’ cryptic answer piques her curiosity more than a cover ever could.
As usual, the customers are fairly steady for the first couple hours of the day, tapering off for a bit around lunch before streaming in again during the afternoon. Rey’s stuck on the till for most of it, but she doesn’t mind the steady rhythm of counting change, bagging books, and making small talk as her fingers coax ISBNs from the register’s squeaky old keys.
“A-hem.”
The next customer is a pale redheaded man wearing an expression that makes her stomach clench.
As anyone who has ever worked retail can attest to, there are just some people that come into a store to make trouble. Whether they’re having a bad day, or are genuinely sadistic individuals, no amount of smiling or sweet talking or ‘customer service’ can ever assuage their poison, and no amount of effort from staff can stem their abuse.
Rey’s seen it all, and she’s seen this face before.
“Where is your display of this mask [i] Bare?” The man’s voice is as tight and pinched as his face.
She frowns. “Excuse me?”
His head tilts, and he lets out a quick burst of air from between his pursed lips. “this mask [i] Bare? The book of poetry by Kylo Ren that was released today? Your stock should have arrived some time earlier this week.”
“Oh, the black book?”
Raising his eyebrows, he tsks then utters the four words no retail clerk ever wants to hear. “Get me your supervisor.”
Poe is at her side in an instant. He dons his best ‘manager face’: brows furrowed with concern, jaw tight, lips teased into a benign expression that can only be described as ‘mildly pleasant’.
“How can I help you, sir?”
The redheaded man reaches into his breast pocket and pulls out a glossy grey and black pamphlet, which he tosses onto the counter with a flourish. “My name is Armitage Hux, and I am the senior distribution agent for First Order Publishing Group. I understand that your store, Recto et Verso, was due to receive a shipment of this mask [i] Bare by Kylo Ren, however I don’t see any of the requisite signage or merchandising on display.”
Poe opens his mouth, then closes it, then nods and responds. “Ah, yes, the merchandising package. You see, my staff and I only received the shipment this morning. We barely had enough time to get the title on the floor-“
“Was your shipment delayed?” Armitage Hux pulls out his phone and begins typing furiously. “I checked the tracking information, and I saw no evidence of a delay.”
“No, no, it wasn’t delayed. We just didn’t get to it.” Poe shakes his head. “I’m sorry, I didn’t say that correctly. We obtained the stock last Friday, but we only received it into our system this morning.”
Hux’s finger pauses. “So, you received the physical copies of the book a week ago, but only opened the boxes today?”
Poe shrugs. “Weren’t they embargoed until today?”
Hux’s skin is translucent enough that Rey can clearly make out the prominent vein that’s starting to throb on his right temple. “Yes, but the instructions clearly stated that the merchandising package was to be opened before the release date. Did you not receive the instructions?”
Poe shrugs again. “Must have gotten lost in the mail.”
The vein throbs as Hux’s fingers clench around his phone. “Lost in the- we emailed the instructions a month ago!”
“I must have-“
“I require no more of your excuses!” Hux spits. “You have blatantly disregarded our explicit instructions and have consequently jeopardized the branding of our product. I suggest that you find said instructions and comply with said instructions, lest we decide your location is no longer worthy to carry the biggest hit of the season.”
Poe shrugs one last time. “Could you send that to me again, I think I-“
“Lost it, right, I figured as much.” Hux angrily stabs at his phone. “There. Think you can manage it this time?”
Poe’s face is the very picture of innocence. “Yes, I think we’ll be able to manage it just fine this time. Thank you for checking in on us.”
With a final huff, Hux spins on his heel and stalks out the door. Poe nods and quickly logs on to the next register to deal with the backlog of customers that accumulated during that conversation. “I can help the next customer over here,” he calls out, his voice warm and friendly.
Once the wave of people has been dealt with, Rey turns over to him, her eyes quizzical. “So, what did these instructions say?”
“Ha! Would you believe black promotional banners and six over sized posters of the author’s face?”
“Black banners? At Christmas time?” She wrinkles her nose. “I highly doubt that will help sell anything.”
“Yeah, I didn’t think so either, but we’re kind of stuck with it. I know we’ve been poking fun at it, but they’re projecting huge numbers for this mask I bare, or however the hell it’s pronounced.”
“I swear I heard Hux pronounce the square brackets. I don’t know how, but he did.”
“Yeah.” Poe sighs. “It would be a huge loss if they pulled the book for mismanagement though, so-“
She groans. “So funeral banners it is?”
He nods. “First thing tomorrow, I’m afraid.”
“But Christmas…”
“Christmas will come whether or not the store looks like an intellectual’s Hot Topic. We’ve got to pick our battles.”
Rey frowns, but he’s right. Beneath his easygoing attitude and chill demeanour, Poe is an excellent manager. He understands people, and he understands business and, most of all, he understand the balance between both of them.
Still, it’s pretty much out of spite that she doesn’t even look in the direction of the book pyre for the rest of her shift.
*
“Come on!”
Rey’s barely through the door when she’s assaulted by the massive visage of Kylo Ren suspended from the ceiling of the store. The assistant manager Snap (real name unknown) cracks a smile from behind the counter when he sees her grief-struck face.
“Things could be worse, Rey. He could look like Steve Buscemi.”
“At least Steve Buscemi is probably capable of writing half decent poetry.” She stops dead in her tracks and surveys the situation; the black piles of books arranged artfully around the store, the black and white face posters, the death banners hung in the windows next to Finn’s painted Christmas tree. “My God, this is terrible.”
“Well, whatever it is, it’s working,” comments Snap. He types an ISBN into their display computer and pulls up a spreadsheet. “We’ve already sold 45 copies this morning.”
“What?!?” Rey runs behind the counter and slides up next to him, her eyes glued to the screen.
It’s true. Between the hours of 9AM and 1PM, they had sold 45 copies of this mask [i] Bare. Coupled with the sales from the previous day, they were pushing roughly 60 copies sold so far, only a day after release.
“It’s not 700, that’s for sure, but-“ Snap’s voice trails off.
“You don’t think it’s too far off,” Rey finishes. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”
“I don’t know, Rey, there’s this weird vibe I’m getting. This book’s got momentum, and I think the word of mouth is going to carry it far. It’s going to be one of those must-have gifts for the person who has everything. You can’t deny that it at least looks impressive.”
She shakes her head and starts walking to the back room. “You can’t judge a book by its cover, Snap.”
“I know that,” he calls after her, “But we all do it anyways.”
Finn shows up for his shift a couple of minutes later, and together they start their afternoon routine of tea and talk. Each taking a mug of their favourite brew, they navigate around the store, chatting with customers and giving recommendations, while Snap and Poe process the purchases. It’s Rey’s favourite type of work; she loves the feeling of satisfaction that comes from having her brain instantly come up with the perfect book for a customer, and especially enjoys the brain-teasers some people throw at her.
“…so there’s this mouse, and the mouse is in love with a tiny woman, and I’m pretty sure his best friend is a bird…”
“…and it’s got two people on the cover, and they’re sweaty, I think, and also twins? I’m not really sure…”
“…there’s a giant thumbtack on the cover. That’s all I know…”
“…they were talking about it on the radio at around five-thirty this morning. No, I don’t remember what station, but you must have heard it…it’s about a cat…”
“…my son told me it’s about some video game where you build things…”
“… I forget what it’s called, but I saw it here seven years ago…”
“…It’s that black book.”
Rey tilts her head, jarred out of her routine by a young, twenty-something blonde girl in a Canada Goose jacket. “Sorry?”
“That black book,” the girl repeats earnestly, her lacquered black nails tapping against her phone. “You know, the one that everyone wants this year.”
“Really.” Rey leads the girl over to the nearest book pyre, and hands her a copy of this mask [i] Bare. “This one?”
“Totally.” She snaps a picture of herself, book in hand, the omnipresent author’s poster providing a looming background. “My girlfriend is going to love it.”
“Really? Where did you hear about it?”
“Oh, it’s everywhere. I saw an add for it on YouTube, and James Franco tweeted that it’s really good.”
“Oh, well if James Franco says it’s good…” Rey shrugs and gives the girl a small smile. The girl nods enthusiastically and heads towards the steady line up at the back of the store.
Rey shakes her head and mutters, “James Franco. What is the world coming to?”
The night time part of closing shifts always seem to drag on so slowly, even during the buzz of the holiday season. Face after face blurs together in a whirlwind of books, greetings, bags, coins, credit cards, so much so that Rey is both exhausted and over stimulated by the time Finn ushers the last customer out and locks the door.
“Wow,” he breathes, wiping his brow. “That was a night.”
“Yes, it was.” Rey punches in the access code for the till, pulls out the float, and deposits it into the waiting arms of Poe, who carries both of them to the back. Retrieving the envelope of receipts, she starts sorting all the transactions until Finn drops a book down on the counter in front of her.
She glances up, sees the black cover, and groans.
“Come on,” he teases. “We’ve sold so many of these today. Doesn’t that at least warrant a reading?”
Grimacing, she tugs the book closer with her index finger and reluctantly flips it open. “Is this supposed to be like the interpretative reading from 50 Shade of Grey that Poe did at our staff party?”
“Oh God no, you don’t have to mime these.” He tilts his head, reconsidering. “Unless you think it’s necessary, of course.”
“I don’t even know how I would, to be honest. Some of his writing is just pound signs and the letter Q, over and over again.”
She contorts her hands into a rough semblance of ‘Q’ and raises them over her head in what she interprets as an ‘artistic’ manner.
Finn chuckles. “That’s a valiant effort, though we should probably let the poetry speak for itself at this point.”
“True.” She grabs the book and starts reading the first piece she sees.
Lord
and here
at the epicentre of mind, I (i) wait
Empty.
his voice
my only sovereign salvation
“-I’m confused,” Finn blurts out. “Didn’t the dedication says these poems are about his grandfather?”
“That’s what it says.” Rey flips back to the front of the book and nods her head. “’To Grandfather. You are my sole muse and guide. Waiting for the day I can be with you again.’”
He grimaces. “I don’t know, man. I didn’t really know my own grandpa, but I know I didn’t have such, I don’t know, intimate feelings about him.”
“Oh God no.” Rey's grandfather is her only family, the only one left after her parents were killed in a drive by shooting. She loves him of course; he's her life, her blood, but still...she can't even imagine having such passionate feelings about anyone, least of all her own Papa Ben.
Finn tugs the book out of her hands and opens it to a new page. “Euphemia,” he intones, his voice slow and breathy.
Why do you weep
alone, swathed in light of your own making
?
When he sits, astride the fence of house and {h o m e},
feral canine, slave of your loins
they sing your name {l***} on the street corners
he whimpers it into his pillow {***a}
His guttural attempt to pronounce the asterisks is both admirable and confusing, and prompts Rey to shuffle over and squint and the page. She lets out a snort of disbelief. “That’s not poetry, that’s some sort of military code. What’s he trying to do, send messages to the enemy?”
“He’s trying to express his feelings, Rey.” Finn rolls his eyes until he can’t hold his composure anymore and breaks down into peals of laughter. Rey follows his lead, chuckling until her cheeks hurt and her sides ache.
Poe pokes his head out into the hallway. “Hey, can one of you clowns come over here and count the tills for me? I’m trying, but I keep on going all cross eyed.”
“Coming.”
Finn tosses the book onto the counter and dutifully heads back to the stockroom, leaving Rey alone at the counter. There’s still twenty minutes left in the shift, so she grabs the wipes and cleans every key on the register, every button on the phone, and every door handle. Flu season, and all that.
Every surface is thoroughly disinfected when she looks back up at the clock. Inexplicably, there’s still eleven minutes left in the shift and, judging by the clink of coins, Finn and Poe are still counting and double counting the day’s earnings.
Her eyes drag over the counter and rest on the book.
It's almost like it's mocking her. The shiny text contrasts with the matte background, tempting her to reach over, grasp it, flip her fingers through the pages. She’s pretty sure the words are still rubbish, but she can't deny that the book itself is aesthetically beautiful.
Looking around to make sure no one else is watching, she quickly grabs the book again and cracks it open, humming at the heft of it in her hand. She skims the poems, assessing their shape and structure more than their actual content while her fingers grip the strangely silky cover.
Just as she suspected; it’s all crap, really. Soulless, pretentious crap meant to entice critics with its ‘edginess’ while making absolutely no sense whatsoever. He says the poems are about his grandfather, but all she can see is the whines of a spoiled brat who’s never heard the word ‘no.’ Each page ushers another mess of braces, pound signs, and capitalization that looks like it belongs on Tumblr instead of in a book of so-called literature. Sure, an ampersand looks cool in the middle of a block of incomprehensible bolded text, but it also makes no damn sense and is the very definition of trying too hard.
reBirth
yawarafrafyxalaganiogaemitgnola
yawarafrafyxalaganiogaemitgnola
&
yawarafrafyxalaganiogaemitgnola
yawarafrafyxalaganiogaemitgnola
She’s pacing now, her restless legs taking her from behind the counter to deep in the literature stacks, and back again as her eyes scan page after page of nonsensical verse. It makes her angry but it’s also strangely addictive. Every turn brings a new structure, a new sculpture of form and font that assaults her very concept of poetry while simultaneously feeding her craving for more of this ubsurdity.
storge
C3PO
ICUNO
YMIHRTGRWZ
CLS2U
R2D2
YDNTUDU
WUTUWNT2
DU2I
“What on Earth are people seeing in this?” she mutters to herself, even though, deep down, she knows. It’s like she’s trapped in The Emperor’s New Clothes, except tailor is weaving meaningless, pretentious poetry instead of invisible robes. The intrigue is found in the desire to understand and comprehend the hidden meaning that must lay beneath the surface of the incomprehension. It must.
After all, James Franco couldn’t be wrong.
Her gaze stalls on one of the last pages. The poem there looks different, more normal than the others, strangely conventional in the sea of metered oddities.
Untitled 977
It’s on the island of my insanity that I can finally grasp the loneliness
Touch it
Taste it
Smell it, stale air and spit and the sweat of my youth, until my eyes roll back from the shame
despite a cool breeze and salt water, I cannot escape the bower of my thoughts
now found, I burrow into the solitude until I can barely glimpse the other
No sight
No sound
No touch, and my nerves, dead to the core, barely sigh under the weight of my flesh
Until the dam breaks, the sky splits wide, and i am immersed in another brand of womb
the ocean, once lapping, quenches to the core the very unmistakable essence of my being
Nerves alight
Eyes bright
Heart afire, I reach through the deluge and grasp the hint of hope that is you
It's rough, amateurish, and yet something about it makes Rey's heart clench painfully in her chest, her eyes misty as the words swim on the page. She can smell the salt air, hear the gentle breeze and gulls calling mixed with the lapping waves and, just for a second, she can see the driftwood cabin that her grandpa used to take her to every summer.
She reads it again, out loud this time, her voice barely a whisper in the deserted stacks. The words gain a throbbing power when spoken, emphasized further by the rushing, organic rhythm of each line. Running her fingers against the exposed spines of the literature section, she wanders deeper into the stacks until her forehead is pressed against the window, her breath leaving little puffs of condensation on the glass as she runs the words over and over and over...
“Rey! We’re closing up back here!”
She slams the book shut and quickly shoves it back into the shelf, her cheeks burning despite the chill in the air.
*
Almost three weeks pass by in a rush of pumpkin spice and heavy, black books. Business is steady, the customers are (for the most part) pleasant, and there’s nothing too out of the ordinary, aside from a couple of drunks and one dog wearing an ugly Christmas sweater.
That is, until Kylo Ren himself shows up at the counter.
It’s so obviously him, and also so uncannily creepy. He's wearing basically the same shirt as his author's photo, for God's sake, and his hair is practically the same style. Her eyes bulge for only a minute before Rey calms down, keeps her eyes ahead and mouth sealed shut. He saunters closer, obviously looking for the spark of recognition in her eyes, but she’s determined to not give him the satisfaction. Instead, she shrugs and motions to the carafe. “Good morning! May I interest you in a hot tea or coffee?”
“Ha!”
She can't help the twitch in her eye. “I'm sorry, it that funny to you?”
“She asks whether it's funny...” he mumbles, not quiet enough to be subtle or entirely meant for himself. His eyes flick towards the pyramid of books stacked neatly next to the counter.
She pointedly ignores his glance and reaches for a mug.
“Tea or coffee?”
“Tea,” he grunts. “I can't trust a place like this to have drinkable coffee. But don't give me any of that flavoured shit. I only drink real tea.”
All of her customer service training strains against the urge to roll her eyes. “Real tea.”
“Yeah. None of that herbal, roiboos, or spicy crap.”
“Hm.” Her fingers trail over her beloved Market Spice and rest on the dark blue tin of Earl Grey. “Will this work for you? I can make you a London Fog.”
His eyebrow raises and lip curls in kind. “No. Flavoured. Shit.”
“So, that's a no.” Her fingers trail again, blue labeled chais to jasmine scented green and appley tisanes.
“What's that?”
She looks over to where he's pointing, at a small, unmarked tin hidden on the bottom shelf. “Ku ding? It's an ancient Chinese infusion and quite bitter.”
“I'll have that.”
“Of course you will.”
“Excuse me?”
“Well, it's just typical really.” She can't help herself; the words spill out of her before she can even think of stopping them. “You're an emo poet, you dress all in black... of course you want a mug of the most bitter tea we sell.”
“Ah.” He's frowning, but his eyes glint mischievously. “So you have heard of me. You know of my poetry.”
“I've 'heard' of your poetry. Your poetry is taking up this entire freaking store! Your face is-” She waves her arm at the stack of books, at the overstuffed Poetry and Literature Section, at the poster of his stupid face hanging over the till. “You've practically haunted our store for the last three weeks!”
“You’re welcome.”
She scoffs. “Excuse me?”
He rounds on her, his eyes blazing. “Well, it’s selling, isn’t it? I’m assuming that’s what’s been funding your shit tea and minimum wage existence this month.”
Rey can hear the blood roaring in her ears and flushing her cheeks, but she manages to keep her voice steady despite her pounding heart. “My shit- that’s a bit uncalled for, don’t you think?”
“I call it as I see it.” He’s trying to keep his cool as his tongue starts running away from him. She can tell by the way his jaw is tensed as his fingers clench then flex, fist to unfurl. “At least my book is actually good, not just another Gillian Flynn or Twilight shit pile.”
“You’re calling Twilight a shit pile?” She's far from a fan of Twilight, but the irony of the author of this mask [i] Bare calling out any other book or author is not lost on her.
He scoffs. “I’m really surprised you’re contesting that. After all, you do work at a bookstore.” His eyes flick to the tea wall. “Though, I suppose if your taste in books is as bad as your taste in beverages, I shouldn’t be surprised.”
“I don’t have to listen to this,” she mumbles. She turns her back to him, busying herself with unscrewing the lid off of the tiny tin of ku ding and scooping an absurd amount of the bitter herb into the infuser. She chuckles to herself as she sets the timer for double the recommended brewing time, then reaches for the tin of Market Spice and brews herself a drink as well.
The hairs on the back of her neck prickle. He’s watching her, he must be; she can practically feel his eyes scanning her, sizing her up, this girl who has the gall to stand up to him, a world class published author. “You know,” she comments, half to herself. “Just because something’s popular doesn’t make it bad, and just because something’s bad doesn’t make it artistic.”
She turns back just quickly enough to catch the tail end of an exaggerated wince on his face. “Oh, you wound me with those words,” he mockingly moans.
“Yeah, yeah, save it for your next book.”
There’s an awkward silence, punctuated only by the steady ticking of the grandfather clock by the couch. Rey’s eyes narrow as she stares at the door, waiting for someone, anyone, to come in and relieve her from the torment of being stuck alone with quite possible the world’s worst poet and conversationalist, but the store is still uncharacteristically slow. Only Mrs. Scheppens remains, and her nose is currently still tucked into a swath of imported cross stitch magazines, lost to the world.
Mercifully, the buzzer goes off, saving her from another unbearable second.
“I’ll have it to go,” Kylo Ren demands. “I think I’ve seen enough here.”
“Enough of what? You?” Rey pours his drink into a travel cup, then hands it to him, her smile sweet but her eyes sinister. “Enjoy.”
Their eyes lock as he takes a sip. For a second, she thinks she sees him wince, but any hesitation is erased by a look of smug satisfaction and a nod. “Excellent. Just what I was looking for.”
He’s about to turn and leave, but stills. “Rey.”
Her heart leaps in shock, then evens out when she remembers-right, name tag.
“Yes?”
“You’ve read it right? My book?”
Again, for a second she thinks she sees just a hint of something, some vulnerability. Then he turns his head and the streaming light from the setting sun project shadows across his face, thick black lines cast from the vertical blinds, and all hint of softness is gone, replaced by cool calculation.
“Yes, I’ve read it.”
“And-?”
She considers lying, but decides against it. After all, what would that really accomplish? “It’s not really my thing,” she admits with a shrug.
Nodding to himself, he takes another sip of tea and unceremoniously walks out of the store.
“Well,” she sighs. “That’s that.”
*
“Guess who’s coming for a reading?”
Rey groans and looks up at Poe. Her abandoned sandwich drops back onto her plate. “Who?” she grunts through a mouthful of tuna, knowing full well what the answer will be.
He pulls out a chair and slumps down across from her. “Kylo Ren. Tomorrow at 7.”
“Ugh.”
“Well, when you sell as many books of his as we have, apparently it warrants a visit from the master himself.” Poe rubs at his chin. “Though I can’t imagine we’ve sold more than any location in the urban core. I mean, it’s been popular, but we don’t have the population to compete with a larger store.”
An image of Kylo Ren’s dark eyes, probing and inquisitive, pops into her head. She dismisses it with a shake. “I don’t claim to understand the mind of the distributor, or his publisher, for that matter.” She pauses, thoughtful. “On the bright side, maybe having him in the store doing a reading will help the text come alive for us. It’s fortunate that it’s pretty much selling itself at this point, because I wouldn’t even know what to say to move it. Maybe the poems will improve when read aloud by their creator.”
*
To her utter surprise, they actually don’t.
If anything, his readings are even more incomprehensible than the poetry itself. He’s stammering, stumbling over words, and even completely omitting most of the outlandish symbols and punctuation peppered through the text. Luckily, his audience doesn’t seem to care, and probably thinks that the bumbling is part of the mystique of Kylo Ren, Tortured Genius, if their enthusiastic applause and snapping is anything to go by.
Finn winces as the author starts reading from Euphemia. “Wow. I did not think this could get any worse.”
“Think again,” Rey says. She’s nursing a mug of tea in her hands as she leans against the counter. “I can’t wait to see how he handles the asterisks.”
It’s almost midnight when the reading is over, once the last book has been signed, hand has been shaked, and selfie has been taken. Rey doesn’t know whether she’s happy or sad that he didn’t read her beloved Untitled 977 though, judging by the butchery of everything else, it’s probably more the former than the latter.
Despite the chilliness of their previous encounter and his general air of pretentiousness, Kylo Ren is actually fairly helpful. He helps Poe and Rey stack chairs while Finn washes the teapots and infusers, and he even volunteers to mop the floor.
“No need, tonight is Rey’s night,” Poe informs him. “It wouldn’t be fair to let her shirk her duties.”
Rey groans. “But there’s so much mud tonight, and everything else is finished. Can’t we just-“
“I happen to know for a fact that you’ve had Finn mop for your past four closing shifts. Don’t even try, we all have to pitch in.” Poe faces her with a smirk. “Don’t worry, we’ll sit around and wait for you to finish.”
“Are you driving home tonight?” Kylo wonders, his eyes trained on the snow blowing outside.
Rey shakes her head. “No, I take the bus.”
“The bus?” he scoffs. “There’s no busses running in this weather.”
“Don’t worry about it, Rey.” Poe rests a comforting hand on her shoulder. “Finn and I will drive you tonight.”
“But you live all the way in the south! It’ll take you over an hour to drop me off and get back home.”
“Let me worry about that-“
“I can drive you.” Kylo shrugs his shoulders sheepishly. “I live in the north side.”
Poe frowns. “That won’t be necessary, you’ve already done more than enough.”
“It’s fine,” Rey says. “I’ll go with him. You guys should get home as soon as you can, Poe. It’s getting worse outside, and you live so far away.”
Kylo looks surprised for a second, as if he wasn’t actually expecting her to say yes, but Rey knows better than to turn an offer like that down.
Poe’s narrowed eyes dart between the two of them. “I don’t know if I’m comfortable leaving you here, Rey...”
Kylo scoffs and Rey laughs. “Don’t worry about it! You know I could take him any day of the week! Besides, I have my phone, so I’ll call you if I need anything. Now go!”
It takes a little more prodding before Finn and Poe finally drive away, leaving Rey with both the muddy floor and Kylo to deal with.
She drags the mop bucket over to the sink and turns on the tap. His eyes follow her every step of the way. “You know, you didn’t need to do this.”
“I know. But I did anyways, and I’m happy you accepted.” He sits down in one of the armchairs, his too-long legs folded up close to his chest. “Also, I wanted to talk to you. To thank you.”
Rey’s hand pauses in front of the cupboard, soap in hand. “Thank me?”
“Yeah.” He leans back and the chair creaks. “My publisher gave me a list of possible stores to do readings at, and they were all the same, really. This one was by far the smallest, but it stood out. Because of you.”
“Me?”
“From the moment I walked through the door, you gave me attitude. Every other store gave me the red carpet treatment, had my face plastered everywhere, and treated me like royalty. You guys threw up a couple of posters and treated me like shit and, I don’t know why, but I kind of liked it.”
She blushes, remembering the absolutely lethal tea she brewed for him that day.
“I wanted to prove this store wrong, wanted to make you like me.” His face softens. “It seemed like a worthy challenge.”
Pausing mid-mop, she straightens up and hums to herself. “I’m not sure you succeeded. I mean, I guess you seem like a decent enough human being. After all, you are the one giving me a ride home tonight.”
“Please don’t tolerate me out of obligation,” he fake-pleads. “I would rather have you hate me again. Speaking of which-“
He reaches into his pocket, pulls out his key, and jabs his thumb on his remote starter. There’s no roar of response from his vehicle. He frowns and stalks over to the door, cracking it open just enough to see his car, and presses his starter again.
Rey hears a muffled ‘fuck,’ then Kylo slips outside, slamming the door behind him. She mops nervously, one eye at the door, the other fixated on a particularly stubborn stain of mud next to the children’s section.
A gust of snow and chill announces his return even before the bell has a chance to ring. His face is set in a dark glower.
“It’s like trying to start a brick,” he grumbles. “Why don’t you guys have outlets here?”
“Because most of us usually take the bus, and customers are never here for more than an hour or two. It’s not regularly an issue.” She leans against the mop. “It’s seriously not going to start? Do you want me to take a look at it?”
“It’s been outside in minus God-knows how much for God-knows how many hours. No. It’s not going to start, and nothing you can do is going to change anything, unless you don’t mind losing a couple fingers.”
He huffs and turns away to look outside at the storm, arms crossed. She stands next to him and mimics his posture, crossing her arms and frowning through the window at the snow drifting like sand on a desert.
“I would go and try to carve a path, but it’s already up to my knees,” he mutters, half to himself. “I would probably freeze to death by the time I got anywhere.”
“I wonder whether Finn and Poe are on the road.” Rey sets down the mop handle and grabs her phone. Her stomach clenches. “Shit, there’s no service.”
“What?” Kylo looks down at his phone, frowning. “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.”
Rey shakes her head, and pushes the mop water to the side. “So, we’re stuck here then,” she says. “All night.”
“Looks like it.”
“Do you have anywhere to be?”
He looks over at her. The fatigue is evident in his eyes. “My bed.”
“I’m sorry, I can’t help you with that.” Rey retrieves her coat from where she threw it four hours ago, and wraps it around herself. The store doesn’t have the greatest furnace (or insulation, for that matter) and, without the support of customers and sunlight, it’s starting to get a bit chilly. “We’ve got a couch, if you’re tired.”
Her suggestion is punctuated by a long, drawn out yawn. Kylo shakes his head.
“Don’t be ridiculous, it’s a couch-“ He gestures to his frame. “-I can barely fit on it; it would be a waste for me to use it. You take it, please.”
“No!” She’s not sure why it’s such a big deal, whether it has something to do with her pride, or maybe she’s feeling some residual pity from having to listen to his feelings all night. Whatever the reason, she marches around the counter and all but shoves him in the direction of the couch.
He recoils. “What the hell are you doing? What’s your problem? I’m trying to be a gentleman here!”
“And I’m telling you that I don’t need you to be a gentleman. I’m perfectly capable of sleeping on the floor.”
It’s pretty much impossible to move him; he’s double her size and stubborn as hell, but she pushes him anyways. She’s already committed, even though she looks like a crazy person with her hands clenched in the shirt of a practical stranger as she tries to coax him on to the couch.
Finally, she lets out a sigh of frustration. “Seriously, take the couch. I’ll sleep on the armchair.”
“Hmph.” He slumps down, and the couch groans under his weight. He groans with it, the relief of finally sitting down written all over his face. Rey flips the lights off, then turns to the armchair across from him and draws herself up, pulling her coat around herself like a makeshift blanket.
Outside, the storm has picked up speed, the wind uttering howling groans that echo down the street and rattle the door. The snow has drifted to halfway up the wall now and covers the front windows in a pillowy soft blanket three feet high. Rey scoots further back on her chair, cocooning herself against the oppressive chill that’s seemingly isolated them entirely from the outside world.
“Looks like its just the two of us for the night,” she says. “Can’t imagine anyone else wanting to venture out if they don’t absolutely need to. Though, I guess there could be people like us, stuck in their own little islands waiting for the storm to pass.”
It’s just a rumble in his chest, really, but she can still make out the words. “It’s on the island of my insanity that I can finally grasp the loneliness…”
She stiffens. “That’s-“
“It’s nothing.” He shifts so that his body is facing the back of the couch. “Just something stupid.” His voice is muffled in the cushions.
“It’s not stupid.” She takes in a deep breath, then exhales in a huff. “It’s beautiful. Untitled 977 is my favourite of all of your pieces.”
She leaves it at that, her words hanging in the darkness as she leans her head back against the armrest. So there. She said it. It simply wasn’t enough to live with the secret that she actually liked a poem by Kylo Ren, she also had to assuage her conscience by admitting it to the man himself.
Her eyes trace the oak moulding around the edge of the ceiling, pointedly avoiding the man in front of her until she can’t bear it anymore and blurts out, “Not that I like any of your other pieces, really. I mean, all the stuff about your grandfather…what’s that all about? But that one I like, it’s m-more vulnerable, I think?”
“I wrote it when I was in my early twenties,” he confesses into the cushion. “I was confused and lonely and I didn’t think anyone understood me...or wanted to understand me.”
“So what changed?” She doesn’t want to push because, really, hasn’t she had her fill of this man-child already, but the curiosity is too much to bear. Untitled 977 speaks to her, speaks to the growing gnaw in her soul just waiting to be quenched and, even if Kylo Ren is the one with all the answers about treating that gnaw, then she wants to hear them.
The couch groans as he shifts again, wiggling his long body around until he’s facing her. His dark eyes glint in the moonlight. “Nothing,” he answers, and he voice is gravelly enough that she believes him. “I still feel that way, really. I just don’t write it anymore, it’s not productive.”
“You mean it’s not profitable.”
“Same thing.”
“But it’s not, not really.”
He props himself up on one elbow. “Sure it is. I was getting nowhere with stuff like Untitled 977. It’s not exciting or interesting or innovative, and all I was doing was moping around in my own loneliness and insecurity.”
“But not all poetry needs to be innovative to be important.”
He lets out a harsh chuckle. “Sure it does. Just look at cummings, Bukowski, Blake...every great poet has pushed the envelope in some way, and through that has achieved something canonical. I can only hope to achieve such greatness through constant reinvention, constructing and deconstructing myself until I achieve that ideal.”
“It sounds so calculated,” she comments lightly. “Calibrating yourself for greatness. For all you know, you could have already created your greatest work; something that future scholars will cite as being influential and important.”
He snorts. “Untitled 977 is far from important.”
“It’s important to me.”
“But why?”
Rey curls in on herself, suddenly self-conscious. “Because I feel the same way too sometimes,” she whispers, tucking her long legs into the crook of the armchair. “It’s so easy to feel lonely these days. People are so accessible, but there seems to be so few people that are actually willing to invest in a real human connection. It’s true, what you say in the poem. People are just like softly lapping waves. They’re there, sort of making an effort to reach out, but never truly quenching any sort of thirst inside of us. ”
A gust of wind bursts outside, rattling the windows and sending a stream of freezing air through the drafty frames. Rey shivers in her armchair and tugs her coat tightly up to her neck. “Do you know what I think?” she mumbles.
He’s shivering too, though he’s far too proud to admit it. “What do you think?”
“I think Untitled 977 scares you.” He frowns, confused, so she continues. “You wrote it when you were young, unrefined, and vulnerable, before you knew how to shape yourself into something hard and commercialized. You admit that you still have those feelings, because those feelings are a reflection of your true self...really, you’re just like everyone else. You’re lonely and lost and terrified, which is what makes you unbelievably ordinary, and, above all else, that is what scares you. That, deep down, you bleed like the rest of us.”
She smiles, gently, into the darkness. “You even shiver like the rest of us.”
There’s that feeling again, that crawling sensation of being watched, as Kylo rakes his gaze across her. Strangely enough, it’s not uncomfortable this time. Instead, she feels warm, almost prideful as he watches her, staring until a portion of his brain believes he’s unlocked some sort of secret from her appearance.
So she stares back, his face uncannily familiar from the weeks she’s been forced to work under the watchful gaze of his author photo, all hard lines and large features, lips, nose, the hint of his ears poking through his wavy black hair. The longer she looks, the more the layers peel away; instead of the haughty intensity of his poster, she sees sadness, vulnerability, and a pervasive curiosity that sends a shiver down her spine.
“C’mere.”
It’s deathly quiet, but she’s still pretty sure that she misheard him. “Sorry?”
He clears his throat, and raises his voice just a bit above his previous whisper. “I said come here. I’m shivering, you’re shivering...it makes no sense for you to perch on that chair all night when there’s plenty of space for both of us on this couch.”
She frowns. His feet are hanging over the edge of one of the armrests.
“And you said it yourself, I’m lonely, you’re lonely-“ She raises her eyebrows, and he quickly backtracks, “-no, that’s not what I’m saying. I don’t want to have sex with you! Well, no, it’s not that I don’t, I’m just not saying that that’s what I’m saying, I mean-“
He chokes, and it’s the most awkward and confusing sound Rey has ever heard. “Keep talking,” she says, a smirk dancing on the corners of her mouth. “You’re doing fine.”
She loves seeing him like this, seeing him flustered and stammering over his words. It almost feels like vindication for the last three weeks she’s had to stare at his perfectly coiffed hair and artfully stretched turtleneck.
“Look,” he manages to stutter out. “You’re cold. I’m fucking cold because apparently this building was built in the 1800s back before they invented insulation-”
“-so you think we should cuddle.” She stares at him pointedly and feels a glow of satisfaction when his cheeks flush pink in the moonlight.
“Not cuddle. Huddle.”
“Huddle then,” she amends. “On a couch. Horizontally.”
“I swear, I won’t try anything,” he promises. “I’m too damn cold to try anything, I swear.”
She knows it’s crazy, but she also knows that he’s right. The heat in the store has never been that great, and she’s not going to get a wink of sleep perched on the tiny Victorian armchair. To be honest, she won’t get a wink of sleep cuddled up in the arms of a stranger either, but at least she’ll be warm.
Wordlessly, she gathers up her coat and shuffles over to the couch, into his extended arms. The moment she lies down, she can feel the warmth from his body leech into her own. Awkwardly, she wiggles down against the back of the couch until she’s cradled in the crook of his arm with her coat tossed over both of them.
It feels like heaven.
He smells of pine and spice, and something crisp and clean, like laundry soap. Shamelessly, she turns her head so that her nose is buried in his shirt, and takes in a deep breath.
“You smell like Christmas,” she mumbles into his chest.
“So do you, but in a different way,” he rumbles back. “You smell like cinnamon and oranges. And tea, naturally.”
“My favourite tea is cinnamon and orange flavoured,” she explains. “You wouldn’t approve.”
“You’d be surprised.” He pauses. “Don’t let this go to your head, but you’re right about a lot of things, you know.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah. For example, that ku ding you served me was really fucking bitter.”
She laughs.
“Not in a good way either, like in a liver-poisoning, death swill way. Not worth it…I should have just sucked it up and gone with the Earl Grey.”
“Good to know.” She hides her smile in his shirt. “What else am I right about?”
He chuckles, causing his chest to rumble under her cheek. “You’re right about me too. I’m a stupid, pretentious asshole who’s been spoiled for all of my life. I-I’ve never really known what it is I’m supposed to be doing, so once I got the opportunity to write, I just did it. I come from a family of authors, so my name opened a lot of doors.”
“That explains a lot.” She hums into his chest. “You’re really not that good at it, so it’s pretty obvious that there’s been some sort of nepotism involved. I mean, your reading…I’m sorry, but it was awful.”
“It was, wasn’t it?” he admits, laughing softly as his fingers flex around her waist. “God, I’ve done so many bad readings. I used to be better at it, but something happened a couple years ago. I got picked up by a publisher, starting going to bigger venues, and I just lost something.”
“You lost yourself.” He tenses, and Rey quickly backtracks. “Sorry, that was super cheesy, please ignore me.”
“N-no, that’s exactly it. I lost myself...and I don’t think I’ve ever really found myself again, if I even ever knew who I was at all.”
“Well, it’s not a race.” She pats her hand awkwardly on the hard planes of his abdomen, hopefully in a reassuring manner. “I don’t really know who I am either, and I doubt I will know any time soon.”
“Do you want any help?”
“What?”
He shifts a bit until his left hand is able to tuck under her chin. Gently, he eases her head up so that he’s able to meet her gaze. “I would love to get to know you more, Rey. You’re so amazing and alive...and beautiful. God, you’re so beautiful. I’ve never met anyone as- as interesting as you before.”
She stares at him, her brain scrambling to process his words as his hand trembles beneath her chin. “W-what?” she manages to say, again. “Interesting?”
“I love how you weren’t afraid to speak you mind, even when you knew who I was. That type of confidence is intoxicating.”
“I-“
“Rey...”
The couch groans as she hoists herself up enough that she’s at eye-level with him. With one final nod, she leans down and gently, gently captures his full lips in hers.
For some reason, she expects him to taste bitter, but instead he’s only soft and salty-sweet, like the caramel cookies they served at the reading. He groans into her mouth and wraps his arms around her, cradling her back in his hands as she threads her fingers through his hair, and Rey is suddenly flushed warm all over.
They break apart, both wearing identical looks of shock that meld into satisfaction.
“Shit,” Kylo breathes. “Now I’m totally not going to be able to fall asleep tonight.”
His body shifts, and he groans again, throwing his head back as a cherry red blush spreads up his neck to his cheeks. “Shit, I’m so sorry.”
“Sorry for-? Oh,” Rey bites her lip as she feels a new kind of warmth rub up against her leg. Despite her surprise, she also feels a faint spark of pride deep in her belly. She did this to him, with only one kiss. “Oh, t-that’s fine, that’s fine, that’s perfectly normal, no proble-“
Sitting up, he presses his lips against hers, silencing her awkward stammers. She melts against him with a soft whimper of pleasure and clutches him closer, pulling them together until she’s completely on top of him. He moans as she rubs her hips against his, tempting him with every sinful grind, his mind spinning with the heat and the pressure and the shock of sensation.
Panting open mouthed against her neck, he begins to peel her shirt up her body. She hisses when the cold air hits her exposed skin. “No, no, too cold. Leave it on.”
His hands dart back to her shirt, smoothing it down. “Oh, okay, sorry.”
She stills, and pulls back just enough that he can see her grin. Leaning forward, she rests her forehead against his, her warm breath ghosting over his lips as she breathes, “We can still have fun with our clothes on.”
His heart skips a beat as she trails her finger down his shirt, her eyes never leaving his when she wrestles open the button of his jeans and drags down the zipper. Reaching down into his pants, she tugs his cock free with one hand while she teases the nape of his neck with the other.
Rey’s touch is clumsy and unpracticed, and the angle isn’t really the best, but the combination of the cold air and her warm hand, coupled with her heated gaze makes his stomach quiver and toes curl. Kylo’s still not exactly sure what’s going on; all he knows is the burning need to touch her, to make her feel the same shuddering twinges of pleasure that she’s sending up his spine.
“Do you mind if I-nngh.” He cringes through another whisper of pleasure, then hoists himself up so that he’s seated upright, with Rey perched on his lap. With a nod of ascent, he undoes the button of her own pants, and she pauses and bends accordingly so that he can peel them down one leg and push them to the side.
“Such a sexy loo-“ she manages to get out, before the rest of her comment is swallowed in a kiss.
“Still warm enough?” he mutters against her lips as he kneads her thighs. She cocks her head and is about to reply when he brushes between her legs with his fingers and her vision goes white.
Finally in a good position, he clutches her close to him while his right hand works between them, teasing and delving her folds as she strokes his dick. It’s unlike anything either of them has ever experienced before; it’s clumsy, awkward, and freezing cold, two almost-strangers fumbling in the dark like teenagers, yet it’s somehow still unbearably sexy and heart-stoppingly delicious enough to bring them both to the edge in a matter of minutes.
Kylo is the first to reach his peak, spraying his clothed belly and groaning into Rey’s neck as his fingers curl inside her. She follows soon after, clinging to his shirt and shaking against his chest as he rubs her clit with his thumb. Grabbing his neck, she presses a moan to his lips as he grins. He leans up, his eyes calm and sated, and presses a kiss to her forehead before falling back onto his jacket with a ‘fwump.’
Even over the howling wind, they can both make out the unmistakable sound of his car starting.
Rey lets out a squeak of disbelief and Kylo, who can’t honestly believe his luck, fishes his keys out of his coat pocket and tosses them across the room, then lies back on the couch and laughs. “Fuck.”
Scrambling to cover herself from the cold, she wraps herself in her coat and slinks to the back of the store behind the counter. “Will you be leaving right away?” she calls out.
“We will be leaving whenever you want to leave.”
“Oh. Right. So, then we would have time for tea?”
He smiles. “We have time for whatever you want.”
“You’re sure easy to please,” she comments, then stops and blushes.
“Don’t let that go to your head.”
“Shut up.” She comes close enough to throw a handful of napkins at him before retreating back behind the counter to prepare the tea. He grimaces as he gingerly dabs the rough paper against the mess on his shirt, then throws across the room to join his keys.
“What kind of tea do you want?” she asks. “Ku ding?”
“Fuck no. Make me something you like, like that orange tea you had last night.”
Five minutes later, she shuffles back to the couch, two steaming mugs in her hands. Kylo takes one and breathes in the aroma of cinnamon, clove, and orange. His mouth waters. “Mmmm.”
Rey flops down on the couch next to him. “I can’t believe we did that here. On this couch. Where Mrs. Godfried reads her harlequin novels, and where Snap knits on his lunch break.” She blushes. “I’m not going to be able to look at it the same way again.”
“And for that reason, I’m happy I don’t work here.” He takes a sip of tea. “Shit, this is good. Where has this been my entire life?”
“It’s been popular,” Rey says, eyebrow raised. “So, naturally, you ignored it.”
“Touché.”
Leaning back, Rey scans the dark walls until her eyes rest on one of Kylo’s posters. The twinge of distain she normally feels for the black and white head shot is missing. Instead she feels only warmth with a little hint of sadness, because the man in the photo, while artfully posed and immaculately styled, doesn’t have the same sparkle, the same laugh as the man by her side.
“Then there’s this asshole,” Kylo grumbles, pointing at the poster she’s staring at. “Some douchebag who thinks he’s too cool to drink delicious tea.”
“He’s not an asshole,” she counters. “He’s just someone who got a bit too wrapped up in trying to be somebody he’s not. Deep down, I think he’s probably really sweet and wonderful.”
She sits pensive for a moment, before turning to him. “Hey Kylo...do you know Untitled 977 by heart?”
He tilts his head. “Yeah. Why?”
Sheepishly, she snuggles up closer to him. “Would you recite it?”
He smiles. “Sure.” After taking a long drag of tea, he clears his throat, and speaks. His voice wavers at first, unsure and nervous, still stumbling until Rey reaches over and squeezes his hand.
Until the dam breaks, the sky splits wide, and I am immersed in another brand of womb
the ocean, once lapping, quenches to the core the very unmistakable essence of my being
Nerves alight
Eyes bright
Heart afire, I reach through the deluge and grasp the hint of hope that is you