[ Rey lets Chewie leave without her, lets the door to the bunk slide shut again. She's not ready to go out there, and she's sure they don't need her. Every damn person on this ship is a pilot. She'll only clutter the halls. It leaves her mired in the negative emotions circling overhead still from last night. Like she's spare parts, again. Like the way Ben seemed to feel for her had been entirely a construction of her own desperate and lonely mind.
Of course it was. He was older. He was Han Solo's son and Luke Skywalker's nephew and a Jedi and a million other wonderful things and she was stupid to consider herself exceptional enough to warrant some special connection with him. She buries her head under a pillow. He probably already has someone.
But she can't stop thinking of her dream. Unconscious, she had allowed herself the freedom to imagine. His lips. His tongue. His skin. The chafing discomfort hasn't gone away. Maybe she should shower. She didn't have any other clothes, couldn't wash these, but maybe that would help. Maybe.
Except she already knows it's not the clothes that are the problem at all, even if taking them off might be a good step towards solving it. She kicks her heels against the bunk. Sand comes away, little grains that cover Han's mattress. She feels guilty, guilty enough to sit up and remove her boots and the rest of her sandy clothes and try to get the granules off the bed by whipping the sheets a little.
It's mostly an exercise in futility. They'll need to be washed. But there she is, naked and doing it anyway.
A horrible thought occurs to her — that maybe he'd wanted to be close to her, indeed, until he'd seen her in that bath. For that thought, her underwear and breast band are removed as well, as though it was their fault for being worn and embarrassing. She lays back out on the bed. It's not as sandy. A definite improvement.
Despite her conflicting feelings, the disappointment and rejection she feels, she still wants him. And for a moment, she lets herself lie there and imagine that he might come in to find her there, wondering what she's up to, and find her like this. Damn the warnings and prying ears of his father, he could take her into his arms and —
She realizes now that here and even in her dream, she doesn't know well enough what comes next to imagine anything rather more specific. Except that it feels warm and satisfying. Frustrated, she opens her eyes again and stares at the ceiling.
The engines rumble. Han must be getting ready to lift off. The whole ship shakes with it, and it makes her squeeze her thighs together. Rey glances at the door, listens for a moment, then runs her fingers down her abdomen to the thatch of wiry curls, matted with sweat, to seek out the damp source of her frustration. ]
i got you this mistake
Of course it was. He was older. He was Han Solo's son and Luke Skywalker's nephew and a Jedi and a million other wonderful things and she was stupid to consider herself exceptional enough to warrant some special connection with him. She buries her head under a pillow. He probably already has someone.
But she can't stop thinking of her dream. Unconscious, she had allowed herself the freedom to imagine. His lips. His tongue. His skin. The chafing discomfort hasn't gone away. Maybe she should shower. She didn't have any other clothes, couldn't wash these, but maybe that would help. Maybe.
Except she already knows it's not the clothes that are the problem at all, even if taking them off might be a good step towards solving it. She kicks her heels against the bunk. Sand comes away, little grains that cover Han's mattress. She feels guilty, guilty enough to sit up and remove her boots and the rest of her sandy clothes and try to get the granules off the bed by whipping the sheets a little.
It's mostly an exercise in futility. They'll need to be washed. But there she is, naked and doing it anyway.
A horrible thought occurs to her — that maybe he'd wanted to be close to her, indeed, until he'd seen her in that bath. For that thought, her underwear and breast band are removed as well, as though it was their fault for being worn and embarrassing. She lays back out on the bed. It's not as sandy. A definite improvement.
Despite her conflicting feelings, the disappointment and rejection she feels, she still wants him. And for a moment, she lets herself lie there and imagine that he might come in to find her there, wondering what she's up to, and find her like this. Damn the warnings and prying ears of his father, he could take her into his arms and —
She realizes now that here and even in her dream, she doesn't know well enough what comes next to imagine anything rather more specific. Except that it feels warm and satisfying. Frustrated, she opens her eyes again and stares at the ceiling.
The engines rumble. Han must be getting ready to lift off. The whole ship shakes with it, and it makes her squeeze her thighs together. Rey glances at the door, listens for a moment, then runs her fingers down her abdomen to the thatch of wiry curls, matted with sweat, to seek out the damp source of her frustration. ]