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He’s frowning again.
He usually frowns, Rey reasons, trying not to let it concern her. And yet still it persists, her worry for the man behind the counter.
It’s been a yearly tradition for her since she left Plutt—and his pathetic excuse for a foster home—to visit The First Order Cafe after her morning shift at Dagobah Diner. The independence of living in her small apartment, coming home with pockets swollen in tips, could only have been perfected by the occasional splurge.
However, her weakness for pumpkin spice trumps all thought of fiscal responsibility.
Rey plops into her usual spot by the window, shrugging off her coat to embrace the radiator’s aura. At almost twenty years old, with three years budgeting experience, she fits comfortably into the seat knowing that her saving for the season will continue to pay off—or, as Finn likes to say, her “basic white girl coffee-fetish fund.”
Or, as Rose so casually teases, her “barista stripper money.”
Rey sighs, digging into her tote, laying out her sketchbook to mark her place before she swallows, gathering the courage to stand. As she approaches the desk, terror weeds through her at the thought of him not being the one at the register. Or worse—the one who is.
As she comes to wait, a tall shadow emerges from the hive of coffee makers and syrup pumps, dark and imposing.
It’s worse.
“Can I help you?”
His deep voice shakes her lungs—or is that an earthquake?—and she pulls up a tight smile. “Pumpkin spice latte, please. Extra whip.”
He nods and takes her pile of wrinkled bills. “Name?”
“Rey. R-E-Y,” she elaborates, her smile faltering. It’s been weeks since she allowed herself to come here so religiously. She’s memorized the name on his tag. And yet, he doesn’t recognize her.
Rey cringes, berating herself internally as he hands over her change, his expression wholly impassive. Of course he wouldn’t remember her—she’s been in the customer service business. She knows this!
“Thanks,” she murmurs, dumping the change into the tip jar and turning back to watch over her things. This place isn’t quite so busy on Thursday evenings—no one in line to pester her, or pressure her to leave.
Soon enough she hears the machine finish, and then his throat clear. “Rey?”
She turns at the sound of her name, trying not to blush at the sight of him, his apron stretched tight over his taut, muscular build. With a hand larger than life he offers her the cup, its orange finish glowing against his pale hand.
She takes it carefully, trying to avoid his fingers and failing. He’s so warm.
“Enjoy,” Ben murmurs, gesturing to it before turning away, striding into the break room.
Rey looks after him as he goes. “Thanks, you too,” she calls, wincing. Stupid! Stupid! Sighing, she takes her straw and lumbers back to her chair, slouching over her knees when she pulls them onto the seat.
Digging her sketchbook from under her bum, she shakes her head at herself, balancing both it and the latte in her arms. She takes a tentative sip as she flips to her latest page, a simple sketch for her night class in a few hours.
Being an art student always seemed like a pipe dream—something she could never pursue. But she’s saved her money for plenty of things, and as it would turn out there are quite a few scholarships for enterprising students sans-parents.
With pencil in her right hand and drink in her left, Rey continues her play with shadows. It’s still early in the semester—though she eagerly awaits learning the finer tactics of painting. She’s always found a particular salience in the beauty of the sliding brush.
She hears the break room door swing open and instinctively looks up, her heart pounding at the sight.
He runs a hand through his long, inky hair, the texture molding to his fingers almost like a lover. But underneath that is his frown, and a telltale redness under his eyes.
Was he… was he crying? Rey wonders, watching as he sets to cleaning the machines, the broad muscles of his back left wide open for her perusal.
Sympathy washes through her as her thoughts roam about the possibilities behind the emotions he hides. She’s had rough days before—and respects a man for knowing how to acknowledge his emotions.
Maybe his girlfriend dumped him.
Rey pushes that thought away immediately. How cruel could she be to think that?
After all, he doesn’t even know her name.
--
About a week later, the Saturday-morning crowd at Dagobah Diner is oddly slim, their usual elderly patrons likely busy at the craft fair downtown. Regardless, most of the staff is sent home—leaving Rey and Rose alone to watch the floor.
Rey wraps the silverware at a booth, lost in the mindless din of empty patronage. It’s doubtful she’ll be making as many tips today—a surefire wound to her pumpkin spice fund.
Rose loiters around, playing with the small containers of coffee-creamer. “So bored,” she whines.
Rey skews her lips in silent agreement.
“So, how are things with your new boyfriend?”
Rey frowns up into Rose’s meddlesome smile. “He’s not my boyfriend.” Then why are their pictures of him in your sketchbook? Her mind berates, making her wonder just whose side it’s really on. Still, she persists. “Seriously, I mention him once and it’s all you talk about.”
“Hey,” Rose shrugs. “I’ve just never heard you even talk about a guy unless it’s my boyfriend,” she says, a waggle to her brow. “And Finn is off-limits.”
Rey holds up one of the butter knives, a smile on her face. “Don’t make me cut you.”
Rose snorts,her amusement stopped short by the chime of the door.
A man in a suit walks in, his hair dark and mussed over his face by the Autumn wind. But when his hand shifts in a familiar movement to wipe it back, Rey’s jaw almost drops to the floor.
“Good morning,” Rose greets, already grabbing a menu. “Booth or table?”
“Booth,” he grunts, following her back, not noticing Rey’s presence. As they pass she ducks her head behind the booth wall, peeking out through the frosted glass to watch his broad back fit itself into the seat, that large hand—with a Rolex, a Rolex?!— accepting the menu from her.
Rey scrambles to her feet when Rose returns, and grabbing and, pulling her into the back room by the arm.
“Hey! Rey, what’s wrong?”
Rey, eyes wide, points out to the floor. “That’s him.”
“Who?” Rose begins to ask, then copies Rey’s shocked expression. “Wait, really?”
Rey nods, covering her mouth.
“No. Way!”
“Yes,” Rey hisses. “Oh God,” she murmurs, looking down at her apron, knowing her messy bun is likely not the good kind. “I can’t let him see me.”
Rose scoff. “Why not?”
Why not? Why not?! “Just because , okay?”
“Rey,” Rose smiles, laying a hand on her friend’s arm. “He may be wearing a three-piece and be, like, really hot, but so are you. I mean, you’ve seen him in a barista outfit. I doubt he’ll judge you for having an apron job.”
Rey glances out the porthole window, noticing him check his watch—waiting for his drink.
“This could be your chance.”
What Rose says is right—Rey knows it, but damn it all, her heart won’t stop pounding! So she takes a breath, steadying herself, and nods. “Okay. I’ll do it.”
“Great,” Rose swats her once. “He wants water with lemon, and try not to come back pregnant, okay?”
“What—?!”
“Get out there!” Rose cheers, pushing her off. The force of it sends Rey through the swinging doors, alone with him, the spinning ceiling fans, and some country song playing overhead.
Rey swallows, bustling for his water. She carries it over, every step bringing her closer and closer to her doom.
She comes to stand at his table, finding his gaze cast down in that impenetrable mope. “Sorry for the wait,” she murmurs, setting his water before him. “Are you ready to order?”
Ben takes his folded menu, holding it out, not looking at her. “The number two. Scrambled, white toast—burnt.”
Burnt toast…? Interesting. “I’ll put that in for you,” she murmurs, laying hand on his menu. But when she tugs, he doesn’t let go. She looks up, finding his dark eyes wide, intent on her own.
His lips part slightly. “I know you.”
Rey’s heart somersaults through her chest, her intake of breath carrying in a sweet aroma of men’s cologne. “Yeah, um—”
“You’re that girl who orders the same thing every day. Pumpkin spice.”
Something in his tone sounds almost mockingly deadpan. She takes the menu, balancing it at her hip, meeting him in friendly challenge. “What gave me away?”
Something not quite a frown flickers on his face, but only for a moment. He reaches out, massive paw gingerly taking his glass. “Your accent,” he answers simply, taking a dismissive drink.
My accent? Rey ponders. Her British accent? The thing never left her, even after she was transferred from London at a young age. To think that is her identifier…
He clears his throat, bringing her back to the present. “I’ll be back with your order,” she peeps, flouncing off, her face growing hot.
She sticks the order in the window. “Two, please, Chewie. He wants burnt toast.”
Chewie grumbles in back, scratching over his hairnet before disappearing into the kitchens. Rose saunters up to Rey behind the bar, needling her in the side. “So? How was your first date?”
Rey frowns, and pinches Rose on her soft, rounded cheek. “Not a date,” she hisses under her breath, glancing out. If he heard Rose, he shows no signs of knowing, lost in his own world. She smiles in slight. “He recognized me.”
“Of course he did,” Rose chuckles, beaming and proud of herself. “The guy can recognize himself a pretty lady~”
“You’re terrible.”
“You love me.”
“I know,” Rey huffs. Soon enough the bell dings, and Rey takes the plate out to Ben. They don’t exchange much more than the average “will there be anything else” and “no, thank you”—which suits Rey’s frazzled nerves just fine.
And then she brings him the check.
She sets it face-down in front of his plate, the toast long gone. She glances at him, heart in her throat. God, he’s gorgeous. The First Order lighting never did him so much justice—and of course, the suit definitely doesn’t damper things.
“So,” Rey spouts before she can think, catching his attention. She nearly blanks, but forces herself onward. “Are you on a business trip or something?”
He furrows his brow. “What?”
“Your suit,” she gestures. “Were you in a meeting?”
Ben’s frown deepens, the depth of his eyes almost unfathomable. Sad. “A funeral.”
In a moment Rey’s horrible attempt at a flirtation abandons her, pulling down the corners of her lips with the weight of their absence. “I’m so sorry.”
“Yeah,” he murmurs, looking down at his hands, arms barred on the table. “Me too.”
“I can’t imagine how hard that must be,” she offers, waiting for some inevitable snarl to leave him alone. But it doesn’t come.
She remembers her nights alone with her tears, wishing that someone would ask if she was okay—despairing when no one was there—and to see him sitting alone like this, with no one to talk to… well, she would rather be that no one then leave him alone.
“Who was it?” she whispers, turning away from where Rose could spy, keeping this between them.
His hands curl into loose fists, squeezing. “My father.”
Phantom sympathy uncoils in her chest, the pain of his grief unbelievable. He looks too young to lose a father—she should know. “Were you close?”
“No,” Ben answers stiffly, yet his shoulders fall, as if in defeat. Rey suddenly notices the dark circles under his eyes, yet the absence of the redness she saw before. “We… had a falling out. Years ago.”
Bad boy, maybe? Her mind tries to theorize, but she shoves that judgement away. He’s obviously hurting—needs someone to listen. Glancing over her shoulder, she decides to hell with it—and sits across from him in the booth. “What happened?” she probes gently.
He doesn’t fight it, meeting her eyes—their intensity the same as always, now torn like some ancient curtain, showing her something more lying beyond. “Car accident. A few months ago. Both him and my mom… they were hospitalized with comas. He slipped away this Thursday.”
Thursday. He was crying on Thursday. Her heart sinks into her non-slick shoes, the world empty save for the grief swirling around him. “I really am sorry, Ben,” she vows lowly, reaching out across the table. He looks in her eyes when she says his name, shining as if he may cry again, and she tentatively sets her fingers a breath away from his.
He looks down at her offered hand, considering it, before moving his fingers out to touch her own—still as warm as she remembers them, almost buzzing like a live wire. “Thank you,” he murmurs.
Rey fights for a small, earnest smile. “Is your mum alright?”
He scoffs at her accent, or maybe at the question, blinking away his tears. He retracts his hand, sitting up straight. “Comatose. No signs of recovery, yet.”
“That must be awful. And expensive,” she winces. Damn it, don’t bring up finances here!
“It is,” he agrees, as though… impressed?! “I’ve taken up a second job to help cover what the insurance can’t.”
Rey balks, completely surprised he would be willing to share that with her—almost a stranger. “The cafe.”
He nods.
Internally, Rey berates herself for any joy she could derive from his misfortune. Maybe they should have met some other way, and yet, tragedy is a part of life. “What do you normally do?”
He shrugs, looking out the window, lips purses and open as if this is the topic that has made him uncomfortable. “Nothing important.”
“That sounds like something an accountant would say,” she jabs, shooting blindly in the dark.
Now something definitely not a frown crosses his face. “A waitress and a psychic. I’m impressed.”
“I work for tips,” Rey smirks, surprised with herself for guessing correctly, warring to remember her sympathy even as a thrill races inside her to know so much about the man who makes her lattes on weekdays.
“Duly noted,” he grunts, reaching into his suit pocket, He pulls free a simple wallet and larger bill, more than enough to cover his breakfast, and lays it on the check. He leans forward, his tall frame notable as she slouches, caught in his dark, consuming eyes. “Keep the change.”
Rey gawks as he moves to stand, straightening the coat of his suit before making for the door. She stands up, calling out against her better judgement. “See you Monday?”
He pauses at the door, looking back at her, a strange light in his eye that wasn’t there before. Probably the closest thing to a smile Rey’s ever seen. “See you then, Pumpkin Spice.”
--
That Saturday in September wasn’t the last time he called her that.
It continues as a tradition all the way to November. Rey walks through the door of The First Order a quarter-past four, when it’s sometimes busy, sometimes not, but no matter what he always seems to find his way to the register, always asks her name, and yet always calls her—
“Pumpkin Spice.”
“Burnt-toast Ben,” she greets, handing over her usual mound of small bills with a smirk. He goes through the usual motions as she leans on the counter, watching him openly. “How’s your mum?”
He usually scoffs at that, especially on Saturday mornings when he just-so happens to show up. Alone. No girlfriend. Squee.
But today he frowns, shaking his head slightly. “Not good,” he murmurs, glancing around as though afraid others will overhear.
Rey follows him from the opposite side of the bar as he goes to make her latte, her voice as quiet as he can hear over the machines. “What’s wrong?”
“Her vital signs are dropping,” he explains carefully. “She needs more medical attention than she gets.”
“Why isn’t she getting it?” Rey puffs up, her anger towards the hospital setting her sneakers on fire. Always eager for a fight.
He glances at her like she already knows. And she does. He’s told her that the expenses have gone up. That even for an accountant, money management for the dying is never an easy feat.
--
He stops coming on Saturdays after that.
She understands completely.
She does.
--
The air is getting chillier, her fingers red-tipped when she pulls out her sketchbook anymore. The painting was excellent—all she’d hoped it would be. Ben claims he will be first in line if ever she opens a gallery. She believes him.
She buries her hand in her coat pocket when she walks into the cafe, holding fast to what lies inside. On the counter she sees a medium latte steaming, waiting for her already. Her heart warms at the sight of it, leaps when he looks up and meets her eyes. He takes it and meets her at the register, handing it over. “No charge.”
“Ben—”
“Please,” he presses, a pained look in his eyes. “I insist.”
Rey flinches, fearing the worst. This isn’t like him. “Is everything okay?”
“It will be, I think. I just,” he frowns, frustrated. His eyes stay glued to her drink, unwavering, as if nervous. “I just want to thank you. For understanding.”
A smile returns to Rey’s face, her grip on what’s in her pocket relaxing. Good. Leia’s still alive. “You don’t have to thank me for that, Ben. I mean, we’re friends, right?”
He winces when she says the word, and she doesn’t have time to wonder why, distracted by the scattered shadows falling over his face from the light outside.
She turns to look, seeing white flakes dance on the chilly wind, and draws her drink close to her. “It’s snowing.”
Ben nods, opening his mouth, “Rey, I—”
His name is called from the back room, cutting him off, and he snarls, turning away from her. “One second.” He stomps into the back room, the sound of his voice booming in argument with that weasel of a manager.
He’d said her name. Warmth spreads from the cup in her hand, the heady, addictive scent long expired on her tongue. It’s been weeks since she stopped coming here for the drink—and started coming for something worth far more.
She pulls the massive wad of bills from her pocket, spun carefully into a thick spiral by a rubber band—a small paper with Mum written trapped under the stretch—and carefully sets it into the tip jar.
She smiles a fond farewell to it, knowing that her latte fund will go to something better than her own selfish desires to see Ben every day. Maybe when she saves up again she can come back. But for now, she knows, he needs it more.
Not wanting him to come back and catch her, too afraid that goodbye will make her cry in front of him, she turns and hurries out the door, leaving the latte behind.
--
Saturday morning is moderately busy at Dagobah Diner, folks recovering from the cold with steamy bacon and decaf coffees, the smell and the happy holiday feelings chasing away the dead leaves of Autumn.
Rey fills another mug for Old Man Kenobi and his wife Satine, glancing out the window as the early snow drifts down from grey skies. Two days since she walked out of The First Order with empty pockets, her both hoping and dreading the possibility that he’ll show up to berate her. To say he doesn’t want her charity. Or her pity. Or worse.
And when she turns away from the table, a pot of coffee heavy in her hand, she looks at the door to find his shadow standing there, dark hair dusted in flakes.
It’s worse.
“Rey,” he says, striding forward.
She nearly jumps out of her skin, setting the pot down on the table with a sigh. “I can explain—oof!”
But he doesn’t listen. The heat of his body descends on her, his frame ducking down as he wraps his massive arms around her, crushing her against him.
“Ben! What—”
“Thank you,” he murmurs into her hair, burrowing into her neck, holding tighter. “Thank you. Thank you.”
The smell of his cologne drifts to her, surrounding her in warmth. She blushes terribly, wrapping her arms around the cloth of his trenchcoat as best she can. “You’re welcome. That’s what friends are for.”
He shakes his head. “No. Rey, I… I don’t want to be that. I want to be more than that. God, Pumpkin Spice—I could kiss you for this.”
Rey’s heart throbs in her bones, warmth curling down to her toes as her tongue moves without her permission. “...You could.”
He goes stiff and pulls away, meeting her eyes with all of his dark, wide beauty and disbelief. His gaze flits to her mouth, then her own, her every nerve on fire as she reaches up to touch his soft, snow-laden hair. “I could…” he whispers, his face drifting closer to her own.
Rey closes her eyes just in time to savor the burst of sensation when his lips meet her own, cold from the wind outside, yet warm from his presence so close to her. She hums happily, smiling into the kiss as his hold on her loosens, his hands drifting to hold her by the waist, every touch better and better as it doesn’t end.
Her hands fall down to his chest. Wow—this guy is shredded. The heat in her cheeks batters against the cold poke of his nose before they part to breathe, his eyes shining down on her, his mouth stretched into a wide, beautiful, impossible smile.
Rey’s reverie breaks when Rose cheers from the opposite site of an otherwise silent diner, lighting Rey’s nerves on fire.
Ben chuckles, his hand drifting to rest boldly at the small of her back. “How’s that for a tip, Pumpkin Spice?”
She smirks, swatting at his chest. “I think I’ll keep the change.”