Archive of Our Own

“Solo, I’m going to need a rough draft manuscript by November 1st.”

Ben Solo looked up through his swooping dark hair to fix a particularly strong glare upon his agent, Armitage Hux. Sure, if it wasn’t for Hux, Ben’s first two novels wouldn’t have been published — the second of which probably also would have never been nominated for an International Thriller Award — but he could still get annoyed with him for imposing a deadline.

Writing took time. Writing was a process.

Writing was something that Ben very suddenly couldn’t do — likely because of the damned deadline.

“You know full well that look does nothing to sway me,” Hux said firmly, leaning back in his cushy leather armchair.

His mahogany desk was dark and smooth, imposing in a way that made Ben painfully aware that he worked for Hux. And though Ben may not like the man sometimes, he acknowledge that Hux knew how to get books published, and how to make authors money. He’d done it successfully for Ben twice, and now he was only trying to do it a third time so they could complete the trilogy.

But that didn’t mean Ben was any more amenable to the demands of a deadline.

“Look, how about this: you need to write another thriller. Everyone is waiting in anticipation to see what Kylo Ren will produce next. October is just a few days away — take advantage of that.” Hux sat up in his chair and held out an envelope to Ben. “Get out of the city. Focus on writing. Go somewhere… spooky.”

“I don’t need to do anything.”

“Actually, you do,” Hux said casually. He set the envelope down in front of the stubborn man sitting across from him. “The company is sending you to Salem, Massachusetts for a full month to write this damned manuscript. It doesn’t have to be publishing quality — just write something. Our editors have deadlines to keep, too.”

Ben huffed. He took the envelope, but was loath to open it or agree to anything Hux told him to do. Ben was in a mood — as he tended to be when he was faced with both writer’s block and a deadline.

“When you come back to New York on November first, I expect a manuscript in my inbox. No manuscript, no publishing, no book deal. You will disappoint thousands of fans, not to mention your bank account will suffer greatly for it because you will have reneged on your half of the contract.” In no uncertain terms, Hux had spelled it out very clearly to Ben that if he didn’t produce a manuscript, he would lose his job and be sued for breach of contract.

Perhaps Ben should have paid more attention to Resistance Publishing all those years ago.

“We’re putting you up in a supposedly haunted hotel for inspiration, but really the whole city should inspire you. While there, you are to do nothing but write. Expenses are covered, but we expect a book at the end of it. Understood?”

Hux’s cool gaze would have made a weaker man quiver, but the only effect it had upon Ben was that it made his glare diminish ever so slightly. Hux and Ben both knew that Hux had won, though Ben would never admit it out loud.

Instead, he just snatched the envelope off the desk, stood from his chair, and stormed out of the room.

Inside the envelope were plane tickets, information on his hotel — The Hawthorne? In the middle of downtown? — it sounded like the kind of place that touted itself as being haunted to try to get people to pay an inordinate amount of money to stay there. He was half-tempted to look up hotel prices there, especially in October, but thought better of it. It was probably better he didn’t know how much money that First Order Publishing was pouring into him and this book. It just made the stakes higher because he’d have to pay every cent back if he didn’t deliver.

Begrudgingly, Ben went back to his Brooklyn apartment and gathered up some clothes. His flight left at a ridiculously early time, given the short distance from New York to Boston. Why he was flying at all, Ben couldn’t understand, but he wasn’t going to try to change Hux’s mind.

He’d given up on trying to do that a long time ago.

After retreating to bed far earlier than he’d ever admit to doing, Ben got a full night’s rest before his early flight to Boston. From there, he secured a rental car and drove the short twelve miles to Salem, Massachusetts.

Though he was still endlessly frustrated with Hux for sending him on this impromptu trip — and even worse was the fact that Hux had known it would disrupt approximately none of Ben’s plans for the next month — Ben had to admit that the scenery wasn’t the worst thing in the world. It had been a long time since Ben had driven a quiet country road lined with red, orange and yellow leaved trees.

Salem itself was quite pretty, albeit a bit small. But then again, everything felt small compared to New York City.

The Hawthorne Hotel was a big, imposing brick building on a corner, right in downtown Salem. It was built in 1925 and a quick half-interested Google search while waiting around at the airport told Ben that supposedly, the first witch who’d been hanged for witchcraft had once owned an orchard on that land and now haunted the building.

Ben had called bullshit as soon as he’d read the words.

The building was a bit garish and definitely not what he would have chosen for himself, but the arrangements were already made so it would have to do. He spotted a cafe down the block that faced a park with wrought-iron gates. In the daylight, nothing about the park was spooky, but it had an air about it that would probably be unnerving once the sun set: leaves whose trees had already fallen, winding cobblestone pathways, old wrought-iron benches to match the gates, and sparse gas lamps throughout.

If there was a Grinch equivalent for Halloween, Ben would likely be that very character. Though he wrote thriller novels, he loathed the holiday. The day was never as eerie or creepy as movies and books had led him to believe it would be. Instead, it was just an excuse for kids to dress up as the latest Disney Princess or Marvel Superhero, while all the older kids dressed offensively or wore next to nothing and got wasted.

And yet here he was, in the Halloween capital of the country, and he had to write a novel.

In thirty-one days.

This was most definitely not going to be enjoyable.

Rose Tico had worked at the Brews House since the day it opened. She loved her work there, and she loved the atmosphere of the shop and the city in the fall when all the Halloween fans were out and about, milling around after making their pilgrimage to Salem. Most of the staff in the shops in the city’s center would have some ghost stories on hand — the validity of them could be called into question, but nobody needed to know that — and the tourists ate that up. They loved the city if they were there for the spooky sights, and most of the time Rose could tell when one of those types of people walked through the door of the coffee shop.

Usually she had no problems with any of the customers, since they were typically so in awe of the creepy vibes of the city, but something about the customer who trudged in that bleary morning of October first told Rose she was in for a whole world of trouble.

His eyes were dark, as was his hair and his clothes and his demeanor. The man looked like he’d rather be anywhere but there — so why was he there? He grumpily ordered his dark roast, no room, and Rose very nearly snickered right at his face when she realized that it suited the rest of him. At least he had one thing in common with tourists and the time of year: darkness.

After she handed him his coffee — in a mug for here, as he’d grumpily requested — he retreated to the table in the far back corner, pulled out a sleek slate grey Macbook, and then stared at the screen.

He did that all day.

Rose noticed after only about an hour that he’d finished his coffee, but the dark look in his eyes as she’d started to approach to offer a refill told her not to bother.

But then he kicked his table — though with his lanky legs, it may have been an accident — and she could tell something was up. Rose took a deep breath and braced herself for impact.

“Hi.”

She smiled down at him, and the man very, very slowly looked up from his computer. The look in his eyes was the most dangerous one she’d ever seen — scarier than many of the costumes around town this time of year.

“I noticed you finished your coffee. We offer free refills on black coffee. Would you like a refill?”

Rose glanced to his coffee cup, which was empty and had left a ring on the table where some coffee had dripped down the side. The man clearly wasn’t very careful with his things. When he didn’t answer, Rose tipped her head to the side and quirked an eyebrow.

“You do speak English, right?”

It was a valid question, given his steely silence, but it was clearly also the wrong question. He stood from the table, frantically shoving his items into his satchel (which was also black, Rose noted). Rose stepped back, giving the man a wide berth as he left the coffee shop without so much as a single word to her.

Out on the sidewalk, Ben seethed. He noticed the way the barista girl who’d interrupted his train of thought seemed baffled by him as she cleaned up the table he’d just vacated. She glanced up, and quickly he looked away so their eyes wouldn’t meet. Logic told Ben he should just go back to the hotel, maybe take a nap before he tried to write again, but it was midday and that seemed foolish and a little wasteful.

So instead, he glanced around the city square. Maybe one of the Halloween-themed shops could provide him a little inspiration.

Just a few doors down from the coffee shop was a store full of items ‘for witchcraft and wizardry.’ Aside from the blatant copyright-compliant riff on the Harry Potter franchise, it seemed decent. So, bracing himself for a shop that could very well make him roll his eyes right out of his head, Ben entered.

It was dimly lit and smelled strongly of incense. Ben expected nothing less. In his experience, any places remotely associated with witchcraft or darkness in a serious sense often smelled the same. He hated it, because the smell gave him migraines, but a short stint around the store was worth it if it sparked some inspiration in him.

At least the book was a sequel, so he already had characters and a setting. He just had to make them do something. And that, almost always, was easier said than done.

Thankfully, it was a busy time of year, so all the shopkeepers had their attention focused on the lost-looking tourists with fat wallets. That meant Ben got to peruse the shop in peace. He was disinterested in anything related to potion-making, or anything in the subject areas commonly studied at Hogwarts. He needed something not so… already used. So many books talked about runes or potions or spells… Ben needed something unique.

In the back corner, he found an odd shelf, slowly rotting away and standing a little haphazardly. It was marked as final sale, no backstock — a clearance section in far more words than was necessary.

The items here were far more interesting. A crooked wand with a hint of something peeking out the end. Fake fangs a person could add to a vampire costume. Various trinkets whose purposes were not inherently clear.

And then he spotted it.

The box was simple, nondescript. There was a quill, some sheaves of parchment, and an inkwell. It was a plain calligraphy set. It suited the Halloween vibe of the shop, sure, but what was the actual point? There was nothing spectacular about the set — and certainly nothing supernatural. At least, not insofar as Ben could tell.

Perhaps writing longhand might spark something in him. The idea struck Ben as a good one, though it was unclear how long that particular mood would last, and he picked up the box. When he reached the sales counter, he tried his best to look indifferent and disinterested — which was actually the opposite of how he felt. This could do the trick. He was eager to try it, hopeful that it might work — but his face didn’t give that away at all, of course.

But everything he felt was overshadowed by irritation the moment the sales clerk called attention to what it was he was buying. “We’ve been wondering when this would go!” she said with a bright smile. She had a smudge of black lipstick on her front tooth. Ben struggled not to snicker.

“It’s just a calligraphy set,” he said flatly, almost shoving his credit card at her in an effort to speed up the transaction.

“It’s not just a calligraphy set, see — oh.” She flipped over the box, and when she stopped short, Ben furrowed his brow. “There were instructions on here, at one point.” She shook her head. “I’ll give you a bit of a discount for that.”

“I know how to do calligraphy. I don’t need a discount.”

The sales clerk tapped away at her circa-1980 cash register anyway, and Ben rolled his eyes.

“They were instructions on how to activate the enchanted properties of the kit,” she said with a bright sparkle in her eye. She looked up at Ben, and was unwavered by his strong glare. “When used correctly, when you place this quill to this parchment, whatever you write will come to fruition.”

“Like — if I write something, whatever I write will happen?”

“Or manifest, yes,” nodded the sales clerk. She looked quite pleased with herself, like she hadn’t expected him to take the bait.

Ben called bullshit of course, but didn’t want to get into an argument with a lowly sales clerk in the middle of a kitschy magic shop in Salem, Massachusetts. He’d sort of set himself up for this when he’d entered the store in the first place.

“I see,” he replied curtly.

Smirking, the clerk asked, “You don’t believe me, do you?”

“It seems unlikely.”

Ben handed over his credit card, eager to end the transaction and leave the shop. He’d had enough supernatural bullshit for the day — and now he was fairly certain it wasn’t going to help him write, either.

“You’ll see,” said the clerk. “This is Salem. You’d be surprised what can happen.”

She slid him a receipt, on which Ben very sloppily signed his name. “Yeah, well, I live in New York, so I guess it’s just going to be a plain old calligraphy set anyway.”

The clerk was unwavering, though, and as she took the receipt and handed Ben the item he’d just purchased, it sent an uncomfortable chill down his spine.

There was no way the set was actually enchanted. It was impossible for these objects to manifest anything supernatural or out of the ordinary. It was just a quill and parchment. Hell, it was all probably fake, too — manufactured for mass production and sales for all the saps like the people still in that store.

Out on the sidewalk, Ben now faced the same conundrum as earlier, though with the added noise of the dumb calligraphy set echoing around in his head. Again, he could go back to the hotel and try to write, but the place was stuffy. The air circulated poorly and it didn’t feel haunted — just stifling. And according to Google Maps, the Brew House was his only coffee shop option unless he traveled a significant distance.

Ben took a deep breath. Hopefully, the barista he’d been unnecessarily difficult towards was done with her shift so he wouldn’t have to face her.

Upon reentry to the Brew House, Ben let out the breath he’d been holding when he didn’t see the short barista girl anywhere. She must have been done for the day. Unfortunately, he also saw someone at the table he’d been using, which meant he couldn’t hide in a dark back corner to write.

The only table available was up in the front, near the bay window. Facing beds of flowers was the opposite of what Ben needed to write a thriller, but it was all he had.

And, since his Word document was completely blank save for the basic formatting pre-loaded into the file, he could get started on his novel with the calligraphy set rather than his computer. Maybe that would do the trick.

So, after ordering another black coffee and settling at the table facing the window and flower boxes and the passersby on the street, Ben pulled out his calligraphy set. He knew how pretentious this must look to others — he looked like such a fucking hipster, writing with a frilly quill, actually blotting his pen into the ink every so many words. It was almost as bad as those “real writers” who brought typewriters rather than laptops to coffee shops.

But desperate times, and all that. So, Ben got started. He dipped the quill’s tip in the ink, and when he moved to write, he realized that words weren’t coming to him.

Ink dripped from the point and blotted on the page. It was ugly and garish, but oddly suiting for a thriller.

Ben sighed and remembered something he’d learned in college: if writing one thing isn’t working, try another. Deciding to try an exercise he’d done repeatedly in undergrad, he wrote about what he could see.

He wrote about the flowers in the box outside the window, how they glinted in the sunlight, sparkling just slightly thanks to the water that had just been poured on them. Ben’s hand moved slower than his brain, and he took a minute to catch up, focusing on the words, on keeping the quill adequately inked. He talked about the flowers and how they would grow, how the water would sustain them, would give them life.

And when he looked up, the flowers had changed. Grown. They were taller, looked stronger, the petals much healthier.

He froze.

There was no way that the shopkeeper had been right. There wasn’t a chance in hell that she’d been right, and that the quill and parchment were enchanted. Ben hadn’t made those flowers grow with his words on the page. He hadn’t.

Had he?

There was only one way to find out.

On a fresh new sheet of parchment, Ben began to write about the girl. He wrote about her dark hair and the way it curled outwards when it reached her cheeks. He wrote about how she was short and petite, but held herself as though she were twice as tall as she truly was. Ben wrote of her bravery, taking no nonsense from demanding, entitled customers.

“Hi! You’re back.”

Ben looked up from his writing and scrambled to cover his words, smearing the ink in the process.

It was the girl. And she was standing in front of him, holding a carafe.

“Do you need another refill?”

Rose. She still wore her apron and her name tag, and she was still there. But he hadn’t seen her anywhere in the shop when he’d arrived. Had he made her appear? Summoned her back to work with the scribble of words on a page?

Dumbstruck, Ben nodded. Rose poured him a refill of coffee and smiled warmly at him before returning to the counter to take someone’s order.

His heart raced in his chest. This was impossible. It was absolutely insane.

Ben knew it was ridiculous to believe in the quill and parchment, but something about the events of that first day he spent in Salem, and how the writing had manifested what he’d put on the page, made him unable to use them again.

He did, however, spark a few ideas for his novel, so the days following were spent busily typing in the back corner of the Brew House. Some days Rose was there, some days she wasn’t. Though he hadn’t written about her refilling his coffee on the parchment anymore, she still did it whenever she was in.

On the third day they’d crossed paths, he noticed that he seemed to be the only customer who got table service, and it only happened when Rose was there. If she wasn’t, he’d have to ask for a refill at the counter on his own.

And though he hated that he’d fallen prey to the myth surrounding the quill and parchment, he begrudgingly appreciated that it helped him write. Just as he’d been hoping, a jaunt around the tourist trap of a magic store was what he’d needed to get the creative juices flowing.

About a week after the incident with the calligraphy set, Ben’s inspiration was beginning to leave him. He needed to rekindle the spark.

He needed to write with the quill again.

Ben quickly downed his coffee and set up his kit, laptop back in his bag for now. The parchment was crisp, and Ben took great care to get the right amount of ink on the tip of the quill. He had to do this right.

He had to see if the first time was a fluke, or if this was actually happening.

But then it struck him: what would he write about this time?

Rose was working, sure, but she gave him refills with or without the writing. The flowers outside could probably grow some more, but it was getting cold outside. Though, perhaps that was even more incentive to give it a try.

But he wanted to try something that was different. Something new.

His stomach grumbled, and that’s when Ben got his next idea. He looked at the array of pastries on the counter, and then down at the paper. Should he? He had plenty of money, and the publishing company had paid for a lot, but while it seemed unethical, it was also small. Ben had to know.

So he began to write about the pastries. He described the croissant in painstaking detail, down to every crumb and every buttery layer. Though it made his stomach growl, Ben couldn’t resist. He made the food sound deliciously enticing, and then ended the page with the hope that Rose would deliver him one, would help him end the grumbling in his stomach.

Christ, he was hungry.

But then nothing happened. There was no food in front of him, and his coffee mug was still empty.

See? Ben thought to himself. It was all a hoax, just like you —

“Hi.”

Ben glanced up to see Rose standing next to him, her carafe in one hand and —

“Is that a croissant?”

“Yeah,” Rose nodded, setting it down on the table. She began to pour his refill as she said, “You looked hungry, and you’re in here all the time. I thought you might like a little treat.”

“I —”

When his mug was full, Rose met his gaze. She seemed unfazed by his confusion and shock.

“Just say thank you.”

Her smile was warm, though Ben could detect some hint of exasperation behind her gaze. She must think he was insane, stammering over his words and writing with quill and parchment at all hours of the day. Or worse, slaving over a computer like every other person in Manhattan. He was a walking stereotype, oscillating between Big-City Businessman and Irritating Hipster.

“Thanks.”

Seemingly pleased with Ben’s response, Rose turned on her heel and started working through her closing duties. Ben left as Rose turned the sign on the door to ‘closed’ and trudged down the sidewalk to his hotel.

Everything about the situation was unnerving for Ben. He wasn’t superstitious and he didn’t believe in ghosts. He wrote thrillers because they could take real-life situations and make them scary without any contributions from things that weren’t scientifically proven. He didn’t write ghost stories, he wrote stories of real-life people with medical conditions that made their brains work differently, made them sick and twisted and more haunting than a ghost because it was real. It could happen.

But something about the calligraphy set had thrown Ben off course. He couldn’t figure out what to do with the information, with the odd string of — dare he call them coincidences? — successes with this supposedly enchanted item.

He didn’t believe in this kind of thing. He didn’t. It made no sense.

And yet the very thing he didn’t believe in had somehow fed all the ideas that were slowly but surely making their way to the page.

Maybe not everything could be explained. Maybe it all didn’t make sense — wouldn’t make sense — but what did that mean? If he put stuff like that in his novel, everyone would think he was insane. He’d deviate too much from the first few books and likely lose fans, and book sales, and then Hux would be even angrier with him than he already was.

A chill shot down Ben’s spine as he walked into his room. His second thoughts on the calligraphy set also had him second-guessing the hotel. Was it haunted? He heard noises in the night, sure, but it was an old building. Old buildings creaked and settled — there was nothing he could do about it. And it didn’t mean the place was haunted. It was just old.

Exhausted from a day of overthinking and wringing the last novel ideas from his brain, Ben collapsed onto his bed, still fully dressed, asleep before his head hit the pillow.

Several more odd occurrences happened at the Brews House as the days wore on. He wrote about Rose wearing a bright yellow apron (staff could pick their own from the pastel options in back, Ben had discerned) and sure enough when she came into the shop, that’s the color she’d chosen.

He wrote about how the staff were all so friendly, and how it must be irritating to have to be so nice to everyone and get along with coworkers. Ben found himself wondering if they ever fought. On the page he speculated that Rose would be a tough cookie in a fight — she’d stomp her foot and argue and push people to the brink. She’d be stubborn and dig in her heels and swear up and down that she was right, and that whomever she was fighting needed to get it together.

About five minutes before closing, that very thing happened. Rose scolded the staff member for dumping out the rest of the coffee and tea before the shop was officially closed.

She’d even gone so far as to, word for word, tell her coworker to get it together.

Ben must have looked disturbed by the outburst, because Rose approached him afterwards, just as Ben was packing up his things. “I’m sorry about that,” she insisted, looking sheepishly at him. “I just — I was planning on sending you home with a to-go cup of coffee. You’ve been working really hard here these past couple of weeks.”

“You don’t have to do that.”

Given his generally prickly demeanor, Ben didn’t understand why Rose would be even slightly inclined to provide him with a refill to go, or any of the extra perks she’d granted him over the weeks.

“Well, since I couldn’t, I brought you this instead.” She held up a white paper bag. “It’s a croissant. I know you like the plain ones, but all we had left was chocolate. If you heat it up in the microwave for about thirty seconds on medium heat, it’ll be perfect. A bit gooey but not so much that it’ll burn your mouth.”

Ben was confused by the gesture. He studied Rose for a moment, trying to figure out her angle. He hadn’t written about the croissant this time; admittedly, the only time he ate at the coffee shop was when he’d take the risk and write it down on the parchment, to see if Rose would bring it over for free. She always did. So far he’d gotten four free croissants… and it didn’t seem like that free perk was going away anytime soon.

She swayed the bag back and forth, enticing him to take it. After slinging his bag over his shoulder, Ben took the pastry bag. “Thanks.”

“You’re welcome,” Rose smiled. “Whatever you’re working so hard on — I hope it’s going well.”

Again, Ben was taken aback by the kindness. “I — thanks.” Not even Hux had checked up with him, and the month was already almost half over. “It’s… just a book. Nothing special.”

“You’re a writer?” Rose said.

Ben nodded. “Thrillers, mostly.”

“Oh,” she pursed her lips and hesitated. “That’s cool.”

She walked to the door and flipped the sign from ‘open’ to ‘closed.’ Ben’s hand rested on the doorknob, but he didn’t make a move to walk away yet. It didn’t seem like Rose wanted him to go.

“You don’t read thrillers,” he said.

She laughed. “Was I that obvious?”

Ben shrugged. “A little.”

“I’d be willing to give thrillers a try,” Rose confessed. “If I knew your name, I’d try to find one of your books, see what they’re about.”

“My name is Ben.” Rose looked pleased with herself for getting that much information out of him. “And I’m not sure you want to read anything I’ve written.”

“Try me.”

Ben combed his fingers through his hair and tried to figure out how to succinctly explain his first novel. “Um… Young man haunted by the memories of his grandfather, an infamous murderer, claims he hears a voice in his head telling him to kill his own father and everything he loves. He wakes up one day to find his father dead but doesn’t know if it was him or not, sending him into a horrible downward spiral from which not even the beautiful young protagonist can save him.”

“Sounds… tragic.”

Rose’s response and the expression on her face as she said it were all Ben needed to know that she would definitely not be interested in reading his novel. Which was fine. He’d rather people who weren’t interested just not waste their time, rather than having them read it just to send him hate mail about how haunting it was and that his main character doesn’t deserve a redemption arc.

“You don’t have to read it,” Ben insisted. “But — thanks for asking, I guess.”

She raised an eyebrow. “You don’t get out much, do you?”

His eyes must have flashed something dark and dangerous, because Rose’s smile faded ever so slightly and she glanced at the door. “Well, I should probably finish closing…”

“Yeah.”

Ben opened the door, the brisk evening air hitting them both roughly. He saw goosebumps spread across Rose’s bare arms.

“See you tomorrow?” she asked.

Ben wanted to resent that he was so predictable, but he just couldn’t. Instead, he awkwardly nodded. “Yeah. Tomorrow.”

The bell above the door jingled as he left, and Rose watched him trudge in big, heavy steps back towards his hotel for a few moments before she returned to work. She had to finish closing up shop so she could be in bright and early the next morning.

Such was her life, working day in and day out in a coffee shop. But people like Ben were the reason she liked it so much. They kept life interesting — granted, all the tourists this time of year did — but none were as captivating and intriguing as Ben.

Somehow, in the days since discovering the Brew House, Rose had made herself a place in Ben’s daily routine. His routine didn’t often make space for others, as evidenced by his poor relationship with his parents and his tumultuous acquaintanceship with Hux.

But as he tried to write — and he was making progress, finally — Ben found that he wouldn’t have made half the progress he had if it wasn’t for Rose. She kept his coffee mug full, and she smiled reassuringly at him across the shop, and other than that she left him alone. Ben wasn’t going to lie and say he hadn’t noticed the looks of frustration on several of her coworker’s faces, due to the fact that he’d just buy a black coffee — the cheapest thing on the menu — and then steal their wifi all day. Except he didn’t. He used Microsoft Word and didn’t need the internet for that. But none of those oafs would know that because they didn’t bother to get to know him.

Granted, Rose probably didn’t know that either, but she did know he was writing something, and likely didn’t need the internet for much of anything.

In fact, Ben preferred not using the internet, because he’d now received two emails in the span of one week from Hux, asking about his progress and urging him to send an email in response so he’d at least know whether or not Ben had died.

Which, given Hux’s general attitude towards him, Ben wondered if Hux would even bother to care if Ben died. Hux’s paycheck might get a little smaller, but not by much. Ben’s book deals were surprisingly fair given Hux’s distaste towards him on most days.

But the book wasn’t done, so it was no use thinking about royalties and success and all of that. Ben had to get through the hardest part, first. And the hardest part was finishing.

The morning of October twenty-first was an average one — a few clouds in an otherwise blue sky, plenty of tourists milling around on the sidewalks outside, and a packed coffee shop inside. Rose was working, as always, and she wore a pastel pink apron that day. Ben didn’t like that color on her much. Yellow suited her better. So did blue.

“How’s the book coming along?” she asked as she topped off his mug of coffee.

Ben shrugged. “Alright, I guess. I’d say I’m getting towards the end. Two thirds done? Something like that.” He looked up at her; usually if someone interrupted him while he was writing, he might be grumpy. But it was Rose, and she was being kind to him. Ben could deign to do the same in return. He wanted to do the same in return for reasons he’d been dwelling upon a lot lately. “My agent will be happy, at any rate.”

“Are you on a deadline?”

Nodding, Ben said, “End of October. It was supposed to be done last month, but…”

“Writer’s block?” Rose supplied. Ben nodded again. She smiled and said, “So you came here to write?”

“Spooky book requires spooky surroundings to get inspiration — or so my agent thinks,” Ben rolled his eyes.

That drew a laugh out of Rose, and she gently set the carafe of coffee on the empty table next to Ben before lowering herself into the chair across from him. “Your agent sounds annoying.”

“He is.” Ben was surprised by Rose choosing to sit with him — she’d never done that before — but he didn’t question it. “Between you and me, he just wants the next paycheck. He keeps trying to move up in the world. He’s like, a step away from owning the place, at this point. So if I screw up, I ruin his chances.” As he spoke, Ben put away his laptop, choosing to put his full attention on Rose instead.

Rose laughed. “Just bite him. Knock him down a peg.”

“I’m not writing a vampire novel, but thanks for the tip,” Ben responded, amusement in his voice.

“Hey, biting works,” Rose shrugged. “Vampire or not. It’s scrappy. Nobody expects it.”

Her statement drew laughter out of Ben, and he shook his head. Rose would say that, being as small as she was. Of course she was small and scrappy. Of course.

“How come you write with your fancy calligraphy stuff sometimes?” she asked.

Ben’s smile faded. That question was… complicated. He wasn’t sure how to answer it. Given that she lived in Salem, would she think him crazy for believing that he owned an enchanted calligraphy set? Probably. But what else could he say without sounding totally pretentious?

He didn’t really have a choice.

“Sometimes it helps to mix it up and try a different format,” Ben lied. “I have to transcribe it later, but it’s usually worth it.”

“Oh, interesting,” Rose said. “When did you learn calligraphy?”

Ben felt awkward suddenly, talking about himself so much. “When I was younger. My teacher liked it, and she let us stay in during recess once a week to learn it if we wanted to. So I did.”

“Didn’t you like recess?” Rose said thoughtfully. “I loved it.”

“Most of the time I did,” Ben replied. “But I don’t like when it gets unbearably cold. I grew up in Michigan where winter can be pretty bad, so… I took advantage of the offer to do calligraphy so I could keep warm.”

Rose laughed. “I can see why that would be appealing.”

“Are you from Salem?”

Ben’s abrupt change of subject seemed to surprise Rose, and he suddenly felt very self-aware. He’d taken her sitting with him as the two of them getting to know each other better — was it really so odd to her that he’d ask her about herself in return? She didn’t seem put off by it, though, which was a relief.

“No,” she shook her head. She smiled at Ben, a wistful look in her eyes. “I’m from the Chicago area. I came out here for school.”

“Oh,” Ben said. She seemed so at home in Salem that he’d just sort of assumed she’d grown up there. “Cool.”

Rose smiled warmly. “It’s okay. A lot of people assume I’m from around here. I take it as a compliment.” She crossed one leg over the other and adjusted her apron. “I came out here and went to Salem State. I started as a Biology major but ended up doing Media Studies. It was fine. But then a friend of mine from school decided to open this shop, and I was her right hand man. I did all the social media and advertising for it, and now I work here every day.”

“That’s great.” Ben glanced out the window, and then back to Rose. “Doesn’t the superstition get annoying?”

Rose’s expression was full of amusement and mischief as she shook her head. The curls at her cheeks swung and Ben had to look away for fear of her seeing the way his face grew hot. “No, I like it,” she answered. “It’s fun to watch. Especially the skeptics.”

Shaking his head, Ben said, “I don’t know how you do it. Three weeks and it’s making me insane.”

“Sure,” Rose said, laughing. “But it’s helping you write your book.”

Ben’s eyes snapped back to look at Rose. She had a point. He would usually be too proud to admit when he’d been bested, but she’d earned his respect. “You’re right,” he nodded. “I’ll give you that.”

“So, you’re just here to write?” she asked, changing the subject.

She must have picked up on the fact that Ben didn’t often admit that he’d been one-upped, and chose to change the subject almost immediately. He was grateful.

Nodding, Ben said, “I’m staying at the Hawthorne, down the street.”

“Ooh, the haunted one?” Rose asked excitedly.

“So I’ve heard. But I haven’t had any supernatural experiences, to be honest.”

“Seriously? I heard it’s crawling with ghosts,” Rose said. “I’ve always wanted to check it out, but couldn’t justify paying for a room on the off chance it really was haunted.”

Were Ben actually willing to act upon the odd feelings Rose had begun to stir inside of him, he would have had his opening to invite her to spend time with him outside of the coffee shop. But as it was, he as a visiting author, she was a young barista, and there was a line of customers at the counter now, waiting for her. He shouldn’t have a crush on her like some awkward acne-ridden teenager. He was a grown man, and Rose had her own life going on here in Salem. Ben was only temporarily in town — there was no use in letting these feelings develop more.

But that was easier said than done.

Reluctantly, Ben glanced over, clueing Rose into the fact that a line had formed, and she frantically excused herself from the table to go serve them.

When she got back to work, Ben found that his writing inspiration had left him once again. Rather than trying to make words work on his laptop, Ben resigned himself to some wishful experimentation with the calligraphy set.

He hesitated, thinking himself foolish for still believing in the mystical powers of the set. In the past few days, though, a seed had been planted in his brain. And after their conversation that afternoon, Ben couldn’t help but test out his newest theory.

The parchment and quill could summon objects, could influence actions, and now it was time to find out if it could stir emotions as well.

As Rose mopped the cafe, Ben wrote about a beautiful young woman and how he’d become enraptured by her. It was some Victorian-era bullshit, that was for certain, but if he could write that the young woman fell in love with the tortured dark soul she met… maybe it would mean something could happen between he and Rose.

The deeper he got into the poetry of it all — he’d fallen into verse, which didn’t often happen to him — the less he focused on his surroundings. Words flowed from his hand onto the page, and it was the most inspiration he’d felt in days. It was a shame the words couldn’t make it to the pages of his novel somehow.

But it felt good to flex those writing muscles, to use words and styles and scenarios that didn’t fit with his novel, to keep everything balanced in his brain.

He finished the page of poetry with a line asking how the young man would ever find a way to talk to the woman, the one he’d described as beautiful yet prickly like a rose — the closest thing he could think of to describe her without naming her outright — and then dotted the last line with a thick, deep period.

The page looked beautiful; his penmanship rivaled the words on the page. He felt equal parts foolish and proud of what he’d produced that night, and for a moment completely forgot that he was in public, and he’d been writing all of this just to test a stupid supernatural theory.

The sound of Rose clearing her throat pulled Ben from his thoughts. Alarmed, he looked up, inconspicuously covering the parchment with his large hand. “Sorry, but I have to lock up,” she said, looking genuinely sorry that she had to ask him to leave.

As a parting gift, Rose set a paper bag on the table. Ben quickly shuffled his calligraphy set into his bag and then reached out for it. “Another croissant?”

“Yeah,” Rose said, an odd edge to her voice that Ben couldn’t read. “I put in some napkins this time. I forgot last time.”

She walked to the door and turned the sign from ‘open’ to ‘closed’ as Ben finished packing up his things. He was grateful for her patience, and gave her the smallest of smiles as he slung his bag over his shoulder and left the shop for the night.

When he got back to his hotel room, Ben opened the bag to see what kind of croissant Rose sent him home with this time. Before he could see, though, he picked up the small pile of napkins she’d put in the bag. On the top one, in crisp black sharpie, was a phone number with a heart drawn next to it.

He’d gotten her phone number. He had a way to contact her.

The calligraphy set had worked once again.

This was wrong. Everything about the situation felt wrong. Ben had written on the parchment that he wished he had a way to talk to Rose, and now he did. And the heart implied a lot.

Had he made Rose have feelings for him through the enchanted calligraphy set?

There was no other reason this was happening, right?

Ben had sat up almost all night thinking about it, worrying that he’d just crossed a line. It felt wrong, manipulating her into liking him. But at the same time, Ben’s rational side told him that it was all just a hoax — the calligraphy set, that was — and that she actually genuinely liked him. But that seemed just as unlikely as an enchanted writing set.

Which left Ben in quite a conundrum.

He went to the Brew House in the morning just as he always did, but Rose wasn’t working. It felt like the perfect opportunity. He could text her, and they could talk outside of the coffee shop, and Ben could sort everything out.

He’d even embarrassingly admit to believing in the crazy calligraphy set if it meant he’d find out if she really did like him.

So, against his better judgment, Ben sent her a text message. Rose replied almost immediately, pleased to hear from him, and suggested they get out of the city center for a day. Ben offered to let her snoop around the hotel to see if it was haunted, but Rose expertly deflected, saying that would work better in the evening, so they should wait and see how the day went.

At Rose’s suggestion, Ben met her at the Salem Willows Park. The cab ride was a relaxing one, and Ben felt equal parts excited and nervous to spend time with her.

He never would have guessed three weeks ago that he’d meet a single person he could tolerate, never mind someone who’d capture his attention as much as Rose had.

But the question was how honest her feelings were in return.

Rose was already at the park when he arrived, and she looked cute. Beautiful, really. She wore a burnt yellow dress with black leggings and some tan boots, a brown leather jacket, and a patterned scarf. Her whole outfit told Ben that she loved this time of year, and the smile on her face told him that she was quite happy at the prospect of spending her day off with him.

Though, that could be the spell.

Ben shook his head before he opened the door and got out, thanking his Uber driver and promising a five-star review before he approached Rose. She was so much shorter than him it was astonishing. He’d noticed it, but never thought much about it, until they stood face to face — or, more accurately, face to chest — and the short heels on her boots didn’t make much of a difference.

Rose beamed up at him, though, her whole expression filled with such happiness as she said, “Hello there.”

“Hi,” Ben replied. He felt stodgy and lame, out of place in a park so nice on such a perfect day with someone as beautiful as Rose. “How are you?”

“I’m good,” she replied. She didn’t hesitate to take in the full sight of him, raking her eyes up and down his body. “You’re not wearing all black.”

Ben looked down, a smile playing at the corner of his mouth. “I own a few things that aren’t black.”

Rose drifted her small hand down the soft green wool of his sweater. “This color looks good on you,” she said. “It’s very fitting for the season, too.”

“Yeah, it matches your scarf.”

She looked down, a little surprised by the connection he’d made. Just as he said, right there in the swirls of color on her scarf, was the same forest green of his sweater. “It does,” Rose nodded, looking back up at Ben. “We match.”

“We do.”

Rose looked so happy, and Ben wished he could fully appreciate the smile on her face. But deep down he was worried that it was all just the spell — that she was only interested in him because he’d written that stupid poem about her with his frilly pen.

His mind reeled the whole time they walked together. Rose would tell him a story every now and then — sometimes folklore, sometimes a story from her college years — but he always had that nagging voice in the back of his mind telling him that she probably only liked him because of that spell. He was a visiting writer who was leaving in ten days, and there was no point in getting attached.

But then they stopped at the edge of the park, overlooking a massive body of water Rose had named while Ben was zoning out. She led him to a bench, and they sat down together.

“Okay, what’s on your mind?” Rose asked bluntly.

Ben looked over, confused. “What do you mean?”

“I mean, I’ve seen you do the whole brooding thing, or the not-talking thing, but never to this degree. So what’s up with you? Did your agent change your deadline or something?”

This was it. His window of opportunity. His chance to set the record straight and let her know once and for all that she didn’t owe him anything — and she probably didn’t truly like him. It was just the spell.

“I…” He felt silly even thinking about saying it, but told her anyway.

Ben spoke of how he’d gone into that shop for a laugh, and that the shopkeeper was quite keen on telling him the full mythology of the object and he’d had to try very hard not to mock her openly. But then he started to detail all the times he’d attempted to write with it, and what had manifested as a result. He told her of the flowers, and the coffee, and the croissant…

“And then yesterday… I was writing a poem. I don’t usually do that, and it’s stupid, but it made words happen, which is what I really need to keep happening, and…” Ben sighed. He dragged a hand down his face and looked away — out at the sparkling blue water of the cove — and tried to ignore Rose’s rather serious gaze. “I wrote about you, and how I’d wished I had a way to talk to you, and that you might be interested in me… and now, here we are.”

It was terrifying, putting it all out there. Not only had he confessed to actually believing in the hocus-pocus that was an enchanted calligraphy set, but then he’d also gone on to fully divulge his wishful thinking, and the feelings that he’d developed towards Rose in the past few weeks. It felt creepy, all of a sudden. She was nice to him because it was her job, not because of any other reason. And now, she was on this date with him because of his writing set, not because she truly wanted to be.

Rose’s laughter pulled Ben from his nervous thought spiral. He dared to look over, and part of him wished he hadn’t. Rose looked so beautiful when she smiled, when she laughed. He liked the way her eyes crinkled at the corners, and the way that when she was happy, her entire expression brightened. But now, in this moment, the laughter hurt. He wasn’t looking at how pretty she was, he was focused on keeping his temper in check and not stomping out of the park like a child.

Her laughter felt a bit unfair.

“Ben, I really do like you.”

Confused, he furrowed his brow and waited for her to continue.

“And your writing set isn’t enchanted. It’s just a generic pile of crap marked up to get sucker tourists to buy it.”

“But then —”

Rose looked absolutely delighted as she said, “About a year ago, when I wanted a little extra cash, I worked part-time in the store where you bought it from. I knew what it was the minute you walked in with it.”

Ben kept quiet. There was more to this story, and he needed her to spit it out already.

“All those ‘coincidences’ were actually me,” Rose said. “I did it all. Because I had a feeling you needed it.” She smiled warmly at Ben, looking a little sheepish. “Anytime I saw you writing with it, I’d find a reason to do something near you, so I could peek over your shoulder and see what it was you were writing about. You have really nice penmanship, by the way.”

His whole face went blank. She’d orchestrated the whole thing? “But the flowers?”

“We rotate the planters so they get equal amounts of sun. A task I happened to be doing while you were sitting in the window seat.”

“And the apron?”

“Yellow is my favorite color.”

“And… this?” He gestured between the two of them.

Rose rolled her eyes and smiled. “I like you, obviously.”

“So this was all a hoax?”

Ben was baffled by the lengths to which Rose had gone to trick him. It seemed surreal — and he felt foolish for believing in the supposedly enchanted calligraphy set, but not believing that Rose could actually have feelings for him.

“Think of it as a harmless Halloween prank.”

Rose angled herself towards Ben, noticing the way he seemed to be even more caught up in his head.

“Please don’t be angry with me. It was nice having reasons to talk to you.”

“You could have talked to me without pranking me.”

As soon as the words left his mouth, Ben realized how petulant and whiny he must have sounded. He winced and looked up at Rose. Her smile had faded, but she wasn’t scooting away from him. She seemed hopeful, sitting next to him, waiting for him to say something else.

Before Ben could assuage her fears, a thought struck him. He looked up sharply, his eyes wide.

“That’s it. You did it.”

“Did what?” Rose asked, excitement already in her voice even though she had no idea what was going on.

“The end of the book. The trilogy. You helped me solve it.”

“Solve what?”

“How to end it!” Ben said, standing almost frantically. He fumbled his phone from his pocket. “I’m sorry, I… I have to write this down. I need to get back to the hotel. You… you gave me the answer.”

Rose was equal parts alarmed and endeared as she watched Ben tap the screen of his smartphone. He was so excited, and she hadn’t seen him quite so inspired in all the time she’d known him.

“Come with me?” he asked as they walked to the main road near the park entrance. “I just… it won’t take me long to type it up. And you can check out the hotel, you can see if it’s haunted. I…”

“Ben, calm down,” Rose laughed. She slid her arm through his. “I’ll go with you. I’m glad I could help.”

He had so many thoughts swirling around in his head that he couldn’t focus on Rose, or her feelings, or his feelings, or what they were possibly doing later. He was bringing her to his hotel room, after all. No, Ben’s main focus the whole ride to the Hawthorne was not losing any of the ideas in his head.

His fingers were frantic as he typed fragments of thoughts and ideas into the Notes app, and he nearly forgot Rose was with him as they got out of the car and went up to his room. His suite was massive — Rose was distracted by all the antiques almost immediately — and Ben whipped out his laptop as fast as he could.

The ideas flowed from his fingers as he wrote; the only way the main character could be redeemed — and he wanted the young man to be redeemed — was if he saved himself. The young woman who was trying to help him could only do so much, but she’d been going about it all wrong. She needed her own revelation, the realization that she had to fight fire with fire. She couldn’t be soft around the edges, waiting for the young man to figure out that he was redeemable.

No, she had to convince him of it in other ways. She had to trick him, to use the environment and the situation in which they lived — they were on the run, after all — as a way to make him believe. Just as Rose had made Ben believe that maybe, just maybe, there was something bigger out there — something he couldn’t see, but just had to blindly believe. And for a while, he had, and now he had half a novel flowing from his fingers.

The thoughts were messy, some fragmented, but Ben got the gist of what he wanted to write out onto the pages of his Word document.

He had no idea how long he’d been writing, but when he finally looked up from his laptop, Rose was draped across the decorative vintage velvet armchair in the corner of the room, legs falling over one of the arms of the chair, scrolling through her phone. Ben stood from his desk, drawing Rose’s attention away from the device in her hand. “Hi,” she smiled warmly.

“Hi.” Ben paused. “Erm — thanks,” he added sheepishly. He scratched the back of his neck, suddenly feeling awkward. “I — I don’t get ideas like that very often.”

“Did you finish your book?” she asked patiently. “You were typing for quite a while.”

Guiltily, Ben asked, “How long?”

Rose checked her phone. “About two hours.”

“Shit,” he muttered under his breath. He took a seat at the edge of his bed. “I’m sorry.”

As she swung her legs around to sit on the chair properly, Rose smiled brighter and said, “Don’t worry about it! I’m glad I could help inspire your novel.”

“You’ve earned a spot on the dedication page, that’s for sure.”

Rose’s eyes widened. “Really?”

Ben nodded earnestly. “Yeah. You’re the reason I found the ideas I needed to finish the book. If that’s not deserving of the dedication page, then I don’t know what is.”

“But… we just met.”

“And yet, I’m closer with you already than most other people I know,” Ben said simply. “So… consider yourself lucky.”

“Or does that mean I should be worried?” Rose challenged, walking over to sit on the bed next to him. “Aren’t you close with your family? Don’t you have any friends?”

Ben winced. “I’m more of the reclusive writer type.”

“Ah.” Rose nodded. She rested her warm palm on his forearm. “Well, that’s alright. Nothing wrong with just having one or two close friends in life.”

Ben hummed in agreement. Truth be told, he didn’t even really have that. But if she had the feeling that Ben truly was a total loner, she was graciously letting it go. He looked down; her hand was so small on his arm, and when he slid his arm back to try to hold her hand instead, their size difference was made even more apparent.

But though she was small, Rose had a personality that could fill a room. She was full of determination and wit that could make anyone nervous, and Ben was absolutely infatuated with her.

“Did you do some ghost hunting while I was writing?” Ben asked, hoping to shift the focus away from himself.

Rose scooted closer to him on the bed and smiled up at him. “I did for a while, yeah.”

“And?”

She laughed. “You were right. Not haunted. I fell for the hoax just like you did.”

Ben looked pleased. “Not even the Salem residents are impervious to the myths.”

“Apparently.”

Their eyes met again, and the room was thick with many things still left unsaid; though they’d put it out there that they’d developed feelings for each other over the course of the last three weeks — that still left a lot of uncertainty. What did that all mean? Were they going to date? Hook up? Pretend they hadn’t had the conversation at all?

Ben swallowed past a lump in his throat.

Rose was brave, though. Fearless. She knew what she wanted and she knew she could have it, so Ben couldn’t even say he was surprised when Rose leaned forward to press her mouth to his. She was gentle, but not hesitant. Her hand gripped his a little tighter and he lost himself to the gentle plush of her lips, the sweet scent of vanilla and coffee that lingered on her even when she wasn’t at the coffee shop.

Ben released her hand so he could drape his arm around her waist instead, pulling her closer, taking note of how petite she was compared to his burly, disproportionate frame. Rose seemed to like it though, if her smile and the gentle, pleased hum she released against his lips was any indication.

Better yet was the fact that Ben could order room service, and he and Rose didn’t have anywhere they needed to be for the rest of the night.

It might be stupid, but Ben wasn’t going to question it. Rose was there, in his room, and she wanted him in return. It wasn’t because of some dumb enchantment or anything else — it was because somehow, his grumpy, gruff demeanor hadn’t totally pushed her away.

He could be oblivious, but even Ben knew that there were very few women out there like Rose, who would put up with all of his quirks. He was going to hold onto what they were building for as long as he could.

Ten days came and went, and before Ben knew it, his bags were packed and he had one night left at the Hawthorne Hotel. His first draft was already done and sent to Hux, and he could breathe freely.

It was Halloween in Salem, Massachusetts, and grumpy old recluse Ben Solo had been convinced to go out to celebrate the holiday. He didn’t have a costume, nor did he feel like investing in one, but he’d indulge Rose and go to the party anyway. Though they hadn't taken full advantage of the privacy of his hotel room, they'd still had plenty of fun. They'd decided to take it slow, the first of many decisions they'd made that day in the calm quiet of his hotel room. Though they'd kept it PG, she'd slept overnight and Ben had enjoyed every moment of sharing his space with someone else for the first time in a very long time.

The Brews House was throwing an after-hours party with spooky coffee drinks (Ben wouldn’t try them of course — they were far too sweet for his tastes) and the staff would all be wearing costumes. Even those who weren’t working were encouraged to do so.

Rose didn’t have to work that night, but she definitely wanted to go, and she’d made Ben promise to just meet her there. He’d asked if she wanted to ride together, but it was a silly suggestion: she lived outside the city and Ben’s hotel was less than two blocks away. There was no sense in him leaving to come back.

So, Ben stood in the entryway of the coffee shop, which was fuller than he’d ever seen it before, and waited for Rose to arrive.

When she did, Ben raised an eyebrow. He’d expected a gaudy, garish, eyesore of a costume from someone as effervescent as Rose. She was outgoing and bright and… definitely not suited to all the earthy tones she wore. She wore beige everything — pants, tunic, vest — and her brown boots and belt made her look like something out of an Indiana Jones movie.

But then she smiled and turned her head to the side to reveal three buns down the back of her head, and Ben’s jaw dropped.

“Are you —?”

“Rey? Your beautiful protagonist from your books?” Rose beamed. “Why yes, yes I am.”

“But —”

Rose laughed. “You know, I actually did like the books. They were the first thrillers I’ve ever read, but I think I’m hooked. Your other protagonist, Ben —”

“He’s the antagonist.”

“Whatever. First of all, nice try, attempting to throw people off your real identity by naming the character Ben and writing under a pseudonym. Second of all, he’s definitely also a protagonist. You wouldn’t be setting up a redemption arc if he wasn’t.” Ben was speechless as Rose schooled him with her thoughts of his novel. “No, the antagonist is Snoke, who definitely has been orchestrating everything Ben has done. He’s basically made Ben his puppet.” Rose shook her head and said, “I had no idea a psychological thriller could be so haunting.”

“So… Ben’s redemption makes sense? Like, narratively, I’ve set up for it well enough, so if say, in book three…”

Rose looked up at Ben with a no-nonsense expression. “He had better be redeemed or I’m going to have words for you, Ben Solo.”

Though her threat sounded very serious and very real, Ben felt nothing but relief. He’d been worried about whether audiences would take well to the character Ben’s redemption arc. He’d been planning on it since the first book, but the character had done some really terrible things, including killing his father. But there was still good in him, and the goal was for Rey to show him that, and to help Ben get back on the right path. To show him how he can help himself and turn his life around.

“How did you find my books, anyway?” he asked curiously.

Rose smiled. “After you told me the plot, I typed it into Google. There are a lot of opinions out there about your books, did you know that?”

“But how did you know it was me?”

She shrugged, slowly leading Ben into the shop and towards the counter so they could order. “I didn’t, at first. But the more I started reading, the more I could see it. After peeking over your shoulder at your parchment poems for weeks, I sort of got a sense for your writing style. Plus, Ben reminded me a lot of you. Did you do that on purpose?”

“Appearance, yes. Personality, no.”

Rose slipped her hand into Ben’s as they waited in line. “Well, I really liked the books,” she said. “I can’t wait to read the last one.”

“It’ll be a while,” he warned her.

“That’s okay,” she responded in a singsong voice. “I’m looking forward to that acknowledgement from Kylo Ren, though. That’ll be one of my biggest achievements, getting on the dedication page.”

“Well,” Ben said, pointedly avoiding her eyes as he went for broke. His heart raced dangerously in his chest. “Play your cards right and it won’t be the last time.”

Rose’s eyes widened in surprise. That was quite the implication there. But she seemed to like it, seeing as her shock turned to a smile once again, and she stepped closer to him, her free hand holding his forearm while she held his hand.

They ordered their drinks — Ben as stodgy as ever with his plain black coffee order, and Rose with her bloody red velvet mocha — before walking towards the corner where a few other familiar faces stood.

“Ben, this is Finn, and this is Poe,” she said, pointing to the guys as best she could with coffee in one hand and Ben’s hand clutched in her other. “They work here, too. You might have seen them around.”

“Yeah,” Ben nodded. He looked at Poe. “You’re the one who got reamed by Rose that one night, aren’t you?”

Finn snorted. He’d clearly heard this story before, or something like it. “Yep, he’s the one,” Rose beamed proudly. “Thanks for playing along.”

“What?!” Poe exclaimed.

Clearly Poe hadn’t been in on the enchanted calligraphy set prank that Rose pulled after Ben wrote that he wondered if the staff ever fought, which made the situation even funnier. Only Rose had known, which meant Poe genuinely thought he’d screwed up that night.

Ben laughed at the realization, and he found that he didn’t really mind these guys that Rose worked with. Friends weren’t exactly the top thing Ben was lacking in his life, but… he’d put up with these guys on occasion, if he had to.

“So, you’re writing a book?” Finn prompted.

“He finished it!” Rose interjected excitedly. “Just the other day! It’s gonna be so good. You guys have to read the first two.”

“A trilogy?” Poe asked, to which Ben nodded. “No offense, but reading isn’t my thing. I prefer the movies. You got a movie deal coming your way anytime soon?”

Ben shook his head. “I refuse. They’ll just screw it all up. I have a very specific casting choice for Rey in mind that they wouldn’t be able to afford,” Ben said bluntly. “But there’s an audiobook, which you might like.”

“Okay, now I want to know who you’d cast as Rey,” Rose interjected.

“Please don’t say Jennifer Lawrence,” Finn mocked.

“Or Emma Stone,” Poe added, his voice full of exasperation.

Ben shook his head. “No. She’s only been one thing I’ve seen so far, but her face is exactly what I picture when I think of the character,” he explained. “Her name’s Daisy Ridley. She’d be perfect for the part.”

Rose’s eyes lit up. “Please push for a movie deal with her in it. Please.”

Again, Ben shook his head. “The books really aren’t Hollywood blockbuster worthy. But thanks for the vote of confidence.”

Their eyes met, and Rose looked like she was ready to argue. Ben knew instantly that this wasn’t the last time they were going to have this movie deal conversation. Something about that realization was more settling than anything, and he tried not to think too much about why that was.

“So, what happens when you go back home, Ben?” Poe asked, brazenly interrupting the long gaze shared by Rose and Ben.

Ben shrugged. “I’ll have some editing to do, and Salem seems as good a place as any to bunker down and get that done, so…” he trailed off for a moment before confessing, “This isn’t the last you’ll see of me.”

“Yes!” Finn exclaimed. “It’s about time Rose found herself a man.”

“Hey!” Rose protested.

Finn shrugged and said bluntly, “What? It’s true. Poe and I settled down, and everyone else on staff kind of is, too. It’s your turn.”

Ben opened his mouth to speak, but Rose beat him to it. “You will not pressure Ben! We’re taking it slow, seeing how it goes,” she instructed.

“I’m just saying,” Finn said in his own defense. “I’m happy you two found each other.”

“Yeah, me too,” Poe nodded. “And I hope it doesn’t hurt.”

“Hope what does — POE!”

Poe and Finn burst out laughing as realization dawned on both Rose and Ben. Rose’s eyes went comically wide, and Ben’s face burned a deep crimson red at the implication. Rose’s friends were quite the handful.

After the men were satisfied with talk of Ben and Rose’s new relationship, topics moved on to other matters that Ben knew less about. But he was fine with that. He was content to sit by her side, an arm around her shoulders, as Rose spoke with her friends. Sometimes, sitting in quiet support was what Ben was best at, and Rose seemed to appreciate that about him, and her friends seemed to accept it for what it was with minimal questions.

Ben felt like maybe he could fit in around Salem, after all.