Like falling shadows and flickering light, he finds himself in bed with her. She lays recumbent on her side, facing him, bathed in the silver moonlight of eternity. Her skin glows against the roughspun cotton sheet which has slipped down about her waist. It's not explicit, the eroticism of this moment. Her body remains completely covered. The only skin which tempts his gaze are the soft planes of her face and the slope of her bare arms. Still, the things left to the imagination create a sensuality of their own. The shape of her lips. The dip of her clavicle. The curve of her neck. The shadow of her tunic where her breasts nestle together.

His illicit gaze falters as he sees another side to this encounter, a darker side. He knows too well the vulnerability of sleep. How easily the mind can be lulled into security and those closest and dearest can pray on your weakness.

Shame sears his flesh, blinds his eye, chokes the breath from his throat. His own bodies response to her nearness feels like ecstasy and treachery as one. He forces his eyes shut, unwilling to violate her confidence anymore than he already has. He cannot sever the bond, but he can respect her privacy.

So he lays there, rigid, still, silent, and faces her without seeing her. And, even though he knows she sleeps, it is an effort in itself just to convince his eyes to shut while another shares his space. So dark are the demons that chase him. So steady lay the lies and betrayal of his past.

His eyelids flutter in protest then fall still in silent determination. And he listens to her breath, letting it wash over him. In. Out. In. Out. Like the rolling of waves. The rush of wind through the trees. The distant storm as it rumbles to shore. The sound of nature and peace and harmony. In. Out. In. Out. And he finds himself soothed beyond all reckoning. Beyond logic or reason or gentler caresses of a time long ago. He finds his eyes pricked by tears that won't fall for memories long past, long buried, long resented. And because he's listening so carefully to every change in the rhythm of her body, he knows the minute, the moment, the second she wakes and finds him besides her, in her bed, in her intimate space. Rey.

Her breath hitches sharply, tightening a vice around the organ in his chest. The one he cannot name. And for the span of three beats, three pumps of blood, three pulses of that traitorous muscle, no sound reaches his ear. Then a slow, low exhale brushes gently over the planes of his face and he can't help the sigh that escapes his own tightly pressed lips. A shadow of her breath. A mirror of their connection.

"Ben?" She whispers barely formed words that ride the gentle airwaves of her exhalation. "Are you awake?"

He tries to pretend, tries to slow the quickening of his pulse, the fluttering of his chest, but it's as fruitless as stopping the rain or the flood or the force. So his eyes slid open and hazel encompasses his vision. And he realizes it's been too long since he last looked into those eyes. The greens and golds and browns give way to pupils so wide that he feels he might fall and never notice the sweet descent.

He knows he should speak, should make some apology… though for what he is not sure. He can no more control the force, this thing between them, this bond, than she. Still, the atonement rests on his lips and if he is honest with himself, which is rare, the forgiveness he seeks begs for so much more than this night, this moment, this memory.

"Ben," her sigh carries his name. That same name, always like a prayer, which brings him back to flowers and waterfalls, to falcons soaring through sky and through space, to a mother's warm embrace, a father's gruff praise, and an uncle's admiration. To a seed that grows inside him, sinister and sure. Ever stronger as those familiar comforts fade away into nothingness, into disappointment, into a new name that is as foul as the seed that has born it.

Her hand brushes along his cheek, carrying with it a tear. His tear. His shame. His weakness. It crumbles the fabric of his split soul. He hates every part of it. But she won't let him.

Before he can dive into that deep, dark abyss, she wraps her strong arms around him, drawing him close, close, closer still. And it's the most beautiful, the most cherished he's ever felt… though he cannot explain why.

Maybe it's the sound of her own tears that soothes him, tears for a soul that he had all but forgotten he possessed. Or maybe it's the way she's smooths the tension from his back with firm strokes of comfort. Or the smell of her hair. Of hot sun, and cool water, and verdant, abundant life.

The intimacy of the moment, of her embrace stagers him. Leaves him raw and bleeding. But it's not a mortal wound. It is a wound meant for healing. A wound to let out the humors of the past. To mend the mistakes of the present. And to care for the scars of the future.

He makes a silent vow to her then: That in whatever time the force has granted them, no matter how far they travel or for however long their destinies are entwined… he will wash and tend the puckered, red scars of his soul and of hers until they are no more than soft, white lines, reminding them of the places they have been and the people who they were before they found each other.

A/N: Reviews give me life so please leave a comment!