Work Text:
Rey snores, he learns.
Most nights, it’s quiet, muffled noises pressed into her pillow, and he barely notices.
But then other nights – nights when the plant life on Naboo has been rather too enthusiastic in its blooming – Maker help him, her snoring drones like the engine of a poorly maintained freighter, and Ben questions his life choices.
He hasn’t been very good at sleeping…well, ever, in his memory. And this is definitely not helping.
He tries sleeping on the overstuffed chaise (a relic from his grandmother’s family, a fact he gets entirely too emotional about) in the front room. His feet dangle off the end and he wakes, toes cold even in the mild spring, dragging himself back to their bed and resigning himself to another night of half-sleep.
He sleeps in late most mornings, a habit Rey correctly attributes to his poor sleep patterns (though she doesn’t know why he doesn’t sleep well, she doesn’t push the question, either.)
Another time, he tries simply…not sleeping at the same time as Rey, staying up unreasonably late and then napping at midday – but she notices and she says it doesn’t bother her but he knows better, now, what hurt looks like on her face and he resynchronizes his sleep with hers.
Over the weeks after their relocation, he teaches himself to fall asleep before she does. Discovers that if he slows his breathing and lets himself drift, he can slide off into a dreamless night, and wakes with Rey curled against his side.
(This seemingly foolproof plan is tossed aside soon after, when they stop pretending not to notice the appreciative glances each is stealing when they think the other isn’t watching. But that’s a story for another day.)