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Rey’s office is no bigger than a broom closet. It’s a cozy little space well lit and airy where she keeps two potted plants named Adam and Daisy, and dozens of drawings, colorful bungee cord bracelets and various gifts from the kids she’s helped since she started working for the Skywalker-Organa foundation.
Her patient today - Although she never uses this terminology as she prefers to call the teenagers of the Center her proteges - is a cute-looking girl of about seventeen who doesn’t seem to be able to stay still more than thirty seconds and keeps fidgeting at the unicorn mug Rey uses as a pen holder. Her long dark hair frames an intelligent face, highlighting the mischievous glint in her eyes.
“No Ophelia, you cannot name your children after your favorite sex toys!” Rey giggles.
The teenager shoots a fake offended look at the only person she really likes in this place, the first person in years she opened up about her dreams and aspirations and more importantly who never judges her. As she’s about to retort something either funny or offending - probably both - there’s a knock on the door and the dark-haired head of a tall man appears in the door-frame. It’s Ben Solo, the only other person she tolerates in this joint.
“Rey?” the intruder asks before realizing she’s is in the middle of a session. “Oops. I’ll come back later.”
“No no, stay!” the pretty girl exclaims while jumping out of her seat like a devil in a box. “I’m done teasing Miss Kenobi, anyway. She’s all yours now,” she adds making sure to plant her eyes on the blushing man.
She sees what’s going on between these two. All they need is a little nudge (and perhaps a bottle of tequila).
She turns back to Rey and adds with a wink “Ophelia.”
“Excuse me?”
“The name of your first kid. I’m sure there’s no rule about naming babies after your favorite persons.”