Tumblr prompt: Things you said after it was over.

Rated M.

"You never say my name, Rey."

She sits on the edge of the narrow bed. She's wearing his shirt because she doesn't like being naked with him. He is sprawled, broad and lazy, on the mattress behind her. Proudly naked, laying on top of the rough sheets.

She thinks he enjoys showing himself to her. He knows her mind, and knows what she thought that first moment she saw his face, all those months ago. He loves baring himself before her, showing her everything. He finds power in his own vulnerability with her.

Her fingers twitch on her thighs, covered by several inches of black fabric, the sleeves of his tunic reaching nearly to her knees. She doesn't like to show him anything.

"I don't know your name," she mumbles into the still air, already mapping her clandestine trek back to her own bed. Why she makes a nightly pilgrimage to the prisoner's barracks to make confusing love with the man who would crush the galaxy if only it would fit in his hand, she isn't sure. Some perverse gravitational pull. Some dark side effect of the Force they both know.

"You do know it," he says with little compunction. "Don't I bed you well enough to hear you moan it?"

She stands, pulling on her leggings. Wrapping her belt around his shirt so she won't have to figure out how to put hers on without taking his off. Her movements are jerky and she won't turn to face him.

"Go to hell," she snaps. Swiping hair clinging to the quickly cooling sweat on her brow, she finally turns.

There is so much of him. Yards of white, white skin. Dark patches of hair here and there, with long stretches of muscle she is embarrassed to know so well. He won't have her in the dark. Always, always he loves her in the glow of a lamp.

"This is over," she says, her jaw set.

"Is it?" He doesn't seem worried, lacing fingers behind his head, posturing just so. "You said the same thing last night. And the night before."

"I hate you."

His lips move as if to smile. Like he is trying to remember how. "You said that, too,"

She picks up her unlit lightsaber from the floor, tucks it in her belt. Looks at him again.

"Say my name, Rey," he says, and she nearly growls in frustration.

She doesn't know it. At these moments, baiting her and looking at her like she belongs on her back beneath him, he is Kylo Ren. When she is on her back beneath him, when his lips graze so gently over her eyelids when she's nearly there, when he begs her to rise to him with his body and his thoughts, he is Ben Solo.

In the silence where she stands now, he is nobody, and the greatest somebody, all at once.

It's over, every night. She tells him so, tells him she won't be back. And the next night, standing before him again, she kisses him–hoping to coax understanding from him through touch alone. And after, repeating her mantra: This is over. It's over.

"I don't know your name," she says again.

He nods, nonplussed. "You'll learn it. One of these nights."

She hurries down the hall toward the pilots' wing of the base, his words ringing after her. She always thinks it is over, that she is done, that the last time was time enough.

But she wants desperately to know his name.

End.

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