CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

a thousand ways to say I love you

The new parents existed at the very edge of the human experience, past every known emotion, every previously discovered way of living. Emotions skewed through them all fractured and strange, deeper and sharper, but soft on the edges, glossy like vaseline. It was a kind of liminal space, suspended on the threshold, held on the boundary between Before and After.

They were learning. About themselves, about each other, about this new family they'd made from nothing. The normal rhythm of life was abandoned, overturned in favor of a peculiar, unpredictable pattern of waking and sleeping. Night and day bled into each other, with only the steady, reassuring cycle of dawn and dusk to keep them tethered to the world outside their little home.

The nights, perhaps, were the strangest time of all.

In the first place, for the young, new mother, every time she closed her eyes for what she knew would be too short a slumber, her mind would replay for her over and over again the experience of bringing Olive into the world. In bright, vivid memories, she would relive it on repeat. Overwhelming, intense, messy and glorious. Maybe it was lingering trauma. Maybe it was hunger to sip at that transcendent moment of empowerment again. She didn't know why it happened, but it always happened, every night for that first month.

And in the second place, and perhaps more importantly, Olive became a clockwork baby in the night. Every three hours, down to the very minute, she'd start grunting and squirming. These were her polite signals that her tiny belly was empty and she needed her mother's arms and her mother's breast. She didn't cry right away. It took a great deal of procrastination on the part of the new parents to get her aggravated enough to actually cry. Mostly she made these funny little noises that, however subtle, never failed to rouse Rey out of the deepest sleep.

She'd sit up, pull her squirmy bean of a daughter out of the co-sleeper, and begin the perplexing, exhausting, but sometimes-sweet ritual of the nocturnal feeding. By the mellow diffuse light of her lamp, she'd join that small company of souls awake in the sideways hour of the night.

It wasn't easy.

Every time she was dragged out of sleep by those grunty little sounds, she'd muffle a little groan into her pillow and despair a little that she'd ever know a full night's sleep again. Her life had been so simple before. She'd never appreciated the luxury of uninterrupted slumber, peaceful and oblivious. She'd didn't know how incredible it was until it was gone. And it baffled her that she'd willingly signed up for this. That ten months ago, walking home from that Thai restaurant with confusion tumbling around inside her, she'd blurted a hasty answer into existence, forevermore sentencing her to this cruel punishment of waking in the middle of a full sleep cycle again, and again, and again. Oh, the despair and longing for sleep was real. Being ruled by a tiny mouth was harder than she ever imagined, and sometimes it reduced her to quiet, private tears as she helped those little lips latch.

Yeah, the waking up part was torture. But shortly after, with her small, sweet-smelling baby nestled safe in her arms, things got more tender. The regret would soften into something almost peaceful. Olive's little eyes sometimes fluttered open to stare up at her. Sometimes her little fingers would splay over the pale swell of Rey's breast, so tiny in their span but so huge in the affection they could induce. There was despair in the waking, and love in the doing.

Even tired and longing for sleep, Rey loved her little daughter. Fiercely. It was an emotion bigger than anything she'd ever experienced, deeper than bone, deeper than spirit. It ran through ancient channels and stirred up primal waters, a love as old as the universe itself.

She did not regret her answer that day walking back to her apartment. Loving Olive was the easiest, the hardest, the most beautiful and the most devastating thing she'd ever known.

And there was a certain charm in these night time episodes too, difficult as they were. And that charm was entirely due to Ben. Every single time Olive stirred and Rey reached for her, Ben would stir too. He'd sit up, scrub his eyes, and grab both the laptop and the bowl of trail mix he'd started keeping beside the bed.

In those wee witchy hours while most of the city slept, Rey and Ben would sit slumped together watching an episode of the original series of Star Trek, Olive quietly getting her fill. Rey satisfied the ghastly hunger pangs that nursing induced by munching the trail mix. The episodes were quiet and mellow and wonderfully cheesy. It was easy, soothing entertainment while they both skirted the edge between consciousness and alpha wave sleep.

"You don't have to wake up with me," she'd tried to protest on the second night he did this. She was the one with aching breasts and an infant stomach to satisfy. He wasn't obligated to sacrifice his sleep like she was.

"I know," he said softly, selecting the next episode. "But I don't want you to feel lonely."

She didn't question him again after that. It made her weak with gratitude that all this mess had led her to him, instead of anyone else. She loved his companionship in those odd weary hours, and when Olive would finish, she loved that Ben would take over. He'd get up and walk around, gently patting until the tiny girl burped up all the little air bubbles she'd greedily inhaled. He'd change her diaper, swaddle her back up, and then hand her back to Rey who would place her into the co-sleeper again. And soon enough, all three of them would be crashing back into the next short period of sleep.

Even though the new schedule was so hard, Rey surged with increased love every day. Going through it together made her feel as if she and Ben were fellow adventurers fighting their way side-by-side, helping each other, through a long dark mine.

When he started work again, she'd have to insist he keep sleeping. He wouldn't be able to nap during the day like they did now. He'd require the rest to be sharp at his job. But for now, she savored the company.

Mostly their days were quiet and enchanted. Han and Leia came by frequently for their doses of baby snuggles. The new parents sometimes took advantage of this by catching extra rest, or going to run an errand together to escape the limbo of their house. Rey liked going grocery shopping with Ben while Leia stayed with Olive. She felt a thrilling, exhilarating little burst of freedom in those runs.

Though it was a freedom tinged with anxiety. Because at least for the first month, it was utterly and completely unnatural for her to be away from her daughter. She felt the absence like a constant tug in her chest, urging her to go back, to be sure that Olive never missed her.

When Han and Leia weren't around, sometimes their friends came by, usually in pairs. And when they were alone, Rey napped as much as she could. Her bleeding was abating day by day, her energy slowly, so slowly, returning. When she needed to rest while Olive was awake, Ben would tuck the baby into the wrap, snug as a bean against his chest, and work around the house.

He loved doing that. She could tell by the contented look in his eye, the subtle pride carried in his shoulders. And also she knew because sometimes she caught him talking to Olive, or singing to her, while he washed dishes or did laundry. One time she woke to find him re-arranging the book shelf, explaining to Olive the lyrics of Days Are Numbers by The Alan Parsons Project. Olive was awake, blinking up at him with that concentrated little pucker between her brows and that solemn turn of her lips.

Rey slept best when Ben had the baby. Her brain could finally turn off, not worried if Olive was safe, not listening to sounds of hunger to wake her. Everything was alright.

But everything was not glossy sunshine and sweet domestic love.

Sometimes there were bad days. Sometimes there were emotions she couldn't control, waves of despair that would make her cry in the shower for reasons she didn't understand at all.

And sometimes she'd get a piece of news that made her feel like garbage. Like when she took Olive in for her two week checkup, and Doctor Kalonia expressed her concerns that Olive wasn't getting enough to eat. It was normal, she said, for babies to fall under their birth weight in the first two weeks, but she was pretty concerned with just how far Olive had fallen. She advised the new parents that they may want to consider supplementing with formula, and gave them a recommendation for another lactation consultant.

Rey wept hard in the car after that appointment.

Ben tried to be reassuring. He told her it was fine, it would be okay. He told her Olive was okay. He told her it was no big deal if they had to use formula. And she knew it was all true, but she couldn't make her heart believe it. Because what all that news translated to inside her was that she was inadequate. She wasn't enough for Olive. She couldn't give her baby enough to keep her alive. To help her thrive.

"She's a big eater," Ben tried to soothe. "It's not your fault."

But Rey's body had made that big eater. She should be able to keep up with the demand. Shouldn't she?

When Leia came over later that day, she confided in her. Leia gave her a hug and told her it would be alright, that she'd had to supplement with Ben too because he also demanded more than she could give. She tried to reassure Rey that it wasn't a measure of motherhood, the ability to breastfeed, and that Olive would love her regardless of her production.

Rey believed her. Mostly. It was easy to accept the reassurance logically — of course it would be fine — formula babies grew up healthy and happy the same as breastfed babies. Ben read her the research that shows no difference between breastfed and formula-fed children after about four years old. She knew all this, and in her good moments, she accepted her fate. But in the night, watching Olive drain her and knowing it wasn't enough, she grieved.

The lactation consultant was friendly. She watched Olive nurse and confirmed a good latch. She decided it wasn't a problem with the mechanics, just a supply issue. She talked to Rey about her dietary habits and encouraged her to start taking fenugreek supplements. She told her to stay well-hydrated and gave her a list of good foods to eat. She encouraged more frequent feedings and pumping between feedings. She told them that sometimes partners could be beneficial too, if they were willing.

Ben was willing.

She knew it scared him a little, how tender this topic was for her. He had no capacity to understand, but he wanted to make it better anyway, whatever he had to do. He bought all the recommended groceries and all the supplements. He brought her Mother's Milk tea, fenugreek pills, lactation cookies, the works. He went by a medical supply store and got a breast pump, paid for by his excellent insurance.

She took so much fenugreek that she started to smell like a maple syrup factory. Ben thought it was funny. He'd bury his head into her hair and mumble something about craving waffles. That part wasn't so bad. She didn't mind it. But she did mind the pumping.

Pumping was the worst. Rey hated it. She'd feed Olive, pass her off, and then strap on the pump for the most dehumanizing experience in the world. It didn't have any of the sweet, soft tenderness of holding Olive and stroking her little round cheek or gazing into her deep brown eyes. No. It felt like she was a fucking cow, not a person but just a body, hooked up to a machine to extract the necessary fluids from her. She found a tip online about using hair elastics to loop the flanges to her bra straps so she could do it hands free, eating or reading or snuggling her baby, but all the while the whir of the machine, the rhythmic suction, the drip after slow drip reminded her that she was a commodity to be resourced, and really, nothing more. She hated every aspect of pumping.

But she liked what came after.

Because about an hour after she'd be done with the pump, so long as Olive was asleep, Ben would help her. And that was maybe the best part of all. He'd sit with her on the bed or the couch and gently massage her with slow, sensuous touches that coaxed all the stress from her shoulders and spine. He'd smile and kiss her and stimulate another let down so coax her body into making more.

Their tactics worked, and little by little, she began to produce better. Eventually she could provide enough to satisfy Olive and fill a bottle to be kept in the fridge for later. At her one-month check, Olive was back on track and perfectly healthy.

And Rey could breathe again.

It was around the one-month mark too that something strange happened.

The first time it did, Rey woke in a panic. Her breasts hurt, far too full for how they should be, and she knew it had been a long time since the last feeding. She checked the time, 6am, and saw that they'd been sleeping, uninterrupted, since midnight. Heart in her throat, she put a hand on Olive's swaddle and practically burst into relieved tears to feel the steady breath rising and falling beneath her palm.

Olive was fine, just deep asleep.

And after that, she began sleeping in big six or eight hour stints.

"It's weird," said Leia when Ben told her about it. "That's not normal baby behavior. She's spoiling you. If you ever have another, a more normal baby, it'll be a rude reality check."

"Should I be waking her to eat?" Rey asked worriedly. They'd finally just established a good routine, and a good supply. Would this mess everything up?

Leia shook her head. "She's healthy, hun, and she won't sleep herself into starvation. Let her rest. It's hard work growing up! She'll tell you when she's hungry."

So that's what they did. They let her sleep.

"Are you gonna forget us, now that you're a mom and you and Ben have your perfect life?" Jess sighed.

Tally led them into a dolphin pose. They were in the sun-dappled warmth of Rey's backyard, a chilly November breeze teasing over the collection of four women — Jessika, Tallie, Rey, and Jannah. They had mats spread out in a little circle over the grass. In the center of the circle, Olive lay swaddled on a blanket, squinting up at the too-bright cerulean sky.

"What are you talking about?" Rey asked, stifling a groan of relief as her back stretched.

She'd asked Tallie to do some yoga with her to try and heal the constant backaches she had — normal, Holdo assured her. Labor used more muscles than Rey had realized, and she was wrecked. She hoped the yoga would help her strengthen them again.

She didn't know if it was working yet, but at least it felt sinfully good to stretch.

"You never come hang out with us anymore," said Jess. "Poe had to beg you to come to the Monster Mash. You used to love coming to that and you didn't even want to come this year."

"Ben didn't want to come," Rey corrected. "But he's never wanted to. He hates that party."

Jannah, on Rey's other side, snickered softly. "Mister I-dress-in-black-so-I-can-just-tell-people-I'm-a-shadow."

They laughed. It was true. For as long as they'd all known him, it was universally acknowledged that Ben hated Poe's annual Halloween party. Dressing up made him feel embarrassed. Seeing everyone else dressed up made him feel second-hand embarrassment too. So he always wore the same boring black t-shirt and black jeans and gave some boring answer when people tried to ask him what he was.

Not like Rey. She lived for Halloween. She loved the excuse to dress in something spooky and outlandish, especially if she knew it would make Ben blush red-hot with embarrassment. Or, with the knowledge she had now about how long he'd harbored feelings for her, maybe it was sometimes arousal too. A few of her costumes had definitely skirted the line of too-revealing over the years.

Tallie moved them into an extended triangle. "Give her a break, Jess, she'd just given birth. Nobody wants to go to a stupid halloween party a week after having a baby."

Yeah, that part was true enough. Even though Rey loved that silly, over-the-top party, she felt tired thinking about it. They weren't getting good sleep, her body was still an aching, bleeding wreck, and Ben was completely and utterly opposed to taking their vulnerable new daughter out into that chaotic scene.

But she also couldn't resist their first opportunity to have a family costume. So she persuaded him, with much flirting and one completely unfair reminder that she'd never had a family costume in her life, that they could show up for just an hour.

Poor Ben. Heckled into a costume. It wasn't much of a costume anyway. He'd worn a green shirt, calling himself a beanstalk. He wrapped Olive around him in a green wrap, and let Rey put her in a little green dress and a green hat. He was the beanstalk, Olive the bean, and Rey went as a genderbent Jack. Everyone made a big fuss over them, they had a lovely hour, and then they were back home passing out candy to the neighborhood families with their little trick-or-treaters. And that had been just as much fun as being at Poe's raucous night, or maybe a little more.

Hmm. Perhaps they were turning into boring parent-types now.

"I'm just saying," Jess continued, "people tend to drift away from their single friends after they have a kid. Marriage does that anyway, like with Paige, but it's especially true after having a kid. We don't want to lose you. We've been rooting for you two to figure yourselves out all along, but now that you have...just please don't drift away from us."

"I won't," Rey promised. "I'm still me. I'm still the same person you've known for years."

"We'll see," Jessika sighed.

Jannah sat down, waiting for Tallie's next instruction. "Why are you such a downer about this, Jess? What's gotten into you?"

"I don't know. I think I just feel like everything's changing. Like Poe actually seems really happy with Finn, it might actually last. Rose and Hux are in a good place. Gwen and Zorri are in their own world. These two have this disgustingly cute life now. Feels like the rest of us are being left behind." Jess frowned. "They're happy changes, but I'm still sad."

Tallie followed Jannah's lead and they moved to sitting poses now. Rey didn't really know what to say. A year ago she would have commiserated, completely mired in the mudpit of the dating world, endlessly cycling and recycling half-assed relationships because she couldn't get over her trust issues to just let someone in. She begrudged Rose her happiness. She doubted Poe's longevity with Finn.

It still baffled her how she could be here now instead of there. How topsy turvy the world had gone. At what point had she switched from being chronically single to being an actual wife and mother? And how did she merge her old identity with this new one? It had barely been a month, and a strange twilight-zone of a month at that — so really, it wasn't enough time to gauge how the rest of her life would go, but already this little family and this little life she was making with Ben felt a hundred times more important, and interesting, than the superficial shenanigans she got up to with her friends.

Still, she feared losing them. Feared losing herself to the altar of parenthood. But was it inevitable? Would it even hurt that much it if did happen?

The questions stayed with her long after her friends had gone, after she took her sun-bathed baby inside and dragged the bassinet into the bathroom so she could shower. Ben was out running errands with his dad. She knew it was silly, Olive would be fine in her crib, even if she cried, but Rey felt uneasy knowing no one else was in the house. She knew that if she didn't bring Olive in, she'd spend her shower hearing phantom cries and worrying that her baby was screaming, forgotten and abandoned in a room without her mother.

Rey thought that a lot. More than she wanted to.

She was a creature of independence, a wild child raised to survive on her own wits and nothing else. She knew how to fend for herself. She did as she pleased, was not easily caged. At least before. But now something inside her felt different. She wasn't caged, exactly, but she was tethered. Her independence had become suddenly very dependent. Maybe it was a temporary thing. Maybe it was just hormones — biology's way of ensuring she provide necessary care for her child — but either way, Rey couldn't stop the fear that Olive would ever wonder if she was loved.

So she overcompensated by keeping her baby close at all times, or showering that tiny head in a cascade of kisses, snuggling that tiny body close in gently fierce hugs.

Maybe Jess was right. Maybe Rey wasn't the same person she was before this all began.

Because the Rey from before barely spared a thought for her absent parents, doggedly ambivalent towards the non-existent memory of people who obviously didn't care about her. She lived free of them.

But the Rey now did think of them. A lot. Too much.

After her shower she settled into the rocking chair in the nursery, feeding Olive, gazing into her perfect little face. She traced the round lines, that perfect downy head and those cheeks bobbing with each full swallow, and catalogued the little touches of Ben in that face, the faint suggestion of herself in there too. Those dark eyes belonged to Ben and his mother, deep inky wells that she loved so well. The hair too, of course, fluffy downy fuzz in riotous abundance. But the shape of her nose, the shape of her eyes, those were Rey. Evidence that this was a child of her body, not just Ben's loins. And as she scanned the face of her beautiful little daughter, she thought, most unwillingly, of her own mother.

That blank enigma in her memory.

Did she suckle at a loving mother's breast? Was she ever gazed upon with so much wonder, so much affection? When her mother looked at her, did she see herself, or the man who lent his DNA? An image came to mind of a woman with vague features propping a bottle in her baby's mouth and walking away, uninterested in discovering the new little expressions of that small face, unable to look at her child without a feeling of disgust.

Did she ever love me? Rey wondered, a horrid surge of pain flaring in her chest.

Olive was arguably the most important thing in her world now. Ben too, though with him it was different. He was her partner. They worked together. Olive was dependent on them for her very survival, and that alone produced a different kind of love. Olive mattered more than anything else. Her happiness was directly tied to Rey's own — at least for now. Someday that might change when Olive herself was ready for independence. Maybe. Rey didn't know. But this possession by a life other than her own had happened so suddenly, but so subtly, that she did not even have time to contemplate the impact before she was made helpless in her love.

Did anyone ever feel that way about her? And if they did, when did it change? Why did it change? How could any mother look on the face of her own little daughter and feel nothing? Was she a terrible baby? An obnoxious toddler? Why was she abandoned? Left at a church with not even a name. Did anyone love her enough to even give her a name?

How could her mother do that?

By the time Ben got home, Rey was clutching a now-sleeping Olive to her, sobbing.

He burst into the room and went to her immediately, falling to his knees, face unfolding in alarm. "What's wrong?" he asked, desperate and baffled. "Are you okay? Is she?"

Olive's little face was nestled into the space between her neck and her shoulder, Rey's cheek pressed to that soft dark hair. She'd gotten Olive's head wet with her tears. It didn't matter. Her baby was safe. She would always keep her baby safe. But no one had felt that way about her, ever. And the loneliness of that realization was devastating.

"How could she do that?" Rey asked Ben, her vision swimming. "She threw me away. Why?"

He looked baffled. "Who?"

"My mother." Somewhere deep inside, Rey knew this was a wild and out of control emotion, stoked by raw hormones, but she didn't care. Her heart was too broken. The idea of ever abandoning Olive tore her wide open, exposing her deepest wounds.

"She didn't love me enough," she concluded. "No one ever has."

Ben swallowed hard. He gently slipped his hands between Rey and her baby, carefully lifting the oblivious infant away from her. Rey made a grab as if to stop him, but he shook his head and elbowed her hands away. He stood and took Olive to her changing table where he swaddled her up and took her to her crib. A little kiss landed on her wet head, and then he laid her in it.

Rey wrapped her arms around herself and sobbed. She couldn't stop. It was a tidal wave sweeping over her, this hurt. This rejection. Someone had held her, and cast her aside. Isolation and grief whirled like a blizzard, arctic winds howling their bitter tune in her chest.

Ben's arms were around her then, pulling her from the rocking chair, hugging her tight to his huge, broad chest. His heart pounded beneath her head and she wondered vaguely if he was nervous. He maybe seemed nervous.

He led her from the nursery, guiding her with a gentle tug into their room. Rey experienced a momentary flash of panic, knowing Olive was alone in the nursery, but he shushed her gently.

"She's okay. She's just sleeping. We need to focus on you right now." He turned to her, cradling her face in his hands. "Tell me what you're feeling."

"My mother didn't want me," Rey said, breath hitching, pain swelling. "Why didn't she want me? I love Olive so much. Why didn't she love me like that?"

"Listen to me," he said, voice shaking. "You are wanted. You are loved. I can't give you what she should have, but...oh, Rey, you don't even know how loved you are."

Ben was all shiny and wavery in her tear-filled vision. Why couldn't she stop crying? Why couldn't she stop hurting? She was happy. Her life was so good. So why did it suddenly feel like there was this gaping wound in her that would never be filled?

"Ben," she pleaded, and she didn't really quite know what she was asking for. It was a nameless hunger. A visceral longing.

His lips met hers in gentle, tender greeting. Soft and sweet, he kissed her and brushed away her tears. She let her fingers tangle into his shirt, a soft, plaintive sound transferred from her to him. He got bolder, more insistent, his mouth all at once becoming firm and bold. His lips parted, and hers beneath him. His hand wrapped around the back of her neck as he held her to him, bracing her so he could kiss her more fiercely.

Like rapid pressure building, her hands clawed at his fabric, his free hand holding her to him around the small of her back. It felt so good, to have him everywhere like this, devouring her pain as if he knew exactly how to suck the poison out of her soul.

And when it burst, it burst in a frenzy. Suddenly kissing wasn't enough. Now their hands were moving, pawing at each other's clothes. He pushed her back onto the bed and moved his lips to her jaw, to her neck. Her head swam and her breath splintered in soft gasps.

Ben was ferocious in his attentions, like a madman determined to drive away the sorrow in her soul. And it was working. Her thoughts flew right away, too consumed by his mouth making its way down her throat, returning again to her lips and kissing her until she couldn't breathe. His hands mapped the planes of her altered body, the glide of his palms trailing fire over her skin.

Arousal like she'd not known for a while stirred within her, roaring up out of the crater of her pain. Perhaps the hole made by her mother's abandonment could never be filled, but there were other ways for her to feel whole. She wanted that. She needed it.

All this touch had such a strange effect. Letting Ben shower her in his worship sort of washed clean all the anxiety roiling around her like a stormy sea. Every bad feeling steadily eroded, tumbled over and over in a current of relentless love until it had rounded at the edges, becoming soft and easier to handle. It was hard to feel lonely with this much affection coursing through her veins, buzzy like a drug.

"Ben," she pleaded brokenly, again not knowing what it was she was asking for.

His lips left her collarbone, his dark eyes meeting hers in the golden glow of the afternoon filtering through the slit in the curtain. "I love you," he reminded her, voice hoarse. "Want me to show you?"

She nodded, new tears sliding down to puddle against her ears.

Memories flashed through her from the Before time, of how they'd done this, again and again. Of the first time, drunk and fumbling, and every time after when the world seemed to slow and fall away into nothingness. When everything else ceased to exist. They were two alone, focus tunneled down to the rasp of his fingertips, to the heat of his eyes consuming every inch of her. It happened that way now too, and Rey wondered how she ever doubted that he was the only person she wanted to be with. No one had ever made her come alive like him.

And no one else would have been able to quiet the anguish of her soul in this moment like he did. She forgot to be sad. She forgot that faceless woman who didn't love her. Someone else who did love her was right here, ready to adore her, ready to do anything to prove it.

It had only been four weeks, but oh, she'd missed being so touched. "Stay with me."

"I've got you," he promised. "I'm not going anywhere."

He kissed her again, and the kiss was blinding, snatching away her senses. It was the most human she'd felt in weeks. Not a body to be resourced, not a patient in recovery. She was Rey, and he was Ben, and they'd done this a hundred times before. They were made for this.

And she was right to trust him. Even though this first time after birth was different and a little uncomfortable, he listened to her and responded to her signals. She couldn't doubt his love. He manifested it in every gentle touch, every mindful kiss. It was exactly what she needed.

A month wasn't even that long. She and Ben had gone longer than that without falling together like this. When he was with Bazine, it had been a year. It wasn't like this was the longest dry spell of her life — but for some reason, it felt as if it had been an age. Maybe because it had been months since he could hold her this close without a growing belly between them. Maybe it was because Rey felt so changed by these last four weeks. She was happy, yes, of course she was, but she also existed on the edge every minute of every day, and right now she could fall back away from it, into safe, strong arms.

It felt so good to be loved by him.

And she believed him.

He wasn't going anywhere. She wasn't either. And whether or not she was loved as an infant, she was loved now. Olive would never know that kind of hurt. Rey would make sure that he daughter knew, every day, how very much adored she was. By both her parents.

Afterwards, Ben went to go get their still-sleeping baby. Rey lay cuddled beneath the sheets, content and soothed. Ben slid in beside her. She tucked into his chest and he put Olive between them. Rey snuggled her little baby and nestled into her husband's body and felt peace.

If she changed and lost her friends, if she broke down again in a crisis of abandonment, if nothing in the world ever made sense again — at least this did. She had the two of them. And they had her.

It was enough.