When Rey next calls, Kylo's buried two pages deep into the first composition he's written since inheriting the Silencer. Startled by the ring and more so by her name on the screen, he answers, sacrificing the melody he has painstakingly chiseled from the ether for the rush that her voice sparks.

"Are you free tomorrow?" Almost shy, this is a Rey whom Kylo hasn't spoken with often.

"I teach from twelve to six." He scribbles down a note before it flees his memory.

"Then drinks at Zorii's Cantina?"

"Drinks?" His mind struggles to catch up. "With you?"

"No," she huffs. "With your old teacher, Snoke. Of course with me. Will you?"

This must be some sort of trap. Payback for the Debussey he asked her to memorize last week after she butchered its iconic riff. "I don't know if I'm free."

A scoff crackles through the connection. "I've seen your evening routine. You're not busy. Join me."

With that sort of steel in Rey's voice, Kylo's not sure he could resist her much longer. "7:00?"

"6:30. Don't leave me hanging, Ren."

"You won't be alone," he promises, turning back to the piano once the call ends. He tries to continue his composition, but the invitation ruins it. The notes have morphed into something far too light for him to use. He starts fresh on a new manuscript sheet, scrawling delight so harmonious that Rey would mock him if she knew he wrote it. He couldn't send it to his publisher, but when was the last time he sent along something usable? Not since Han left.

Abandoning songwriting for something too undignified to call preparing for the date tomorrow, but too exultant to mask as routine, Kylo prowls the length of his closet. Up until this point, it has contained clothes to suit every situation: button ups for lessons, t-shirts for home, and tuxes to dazzle Carnegie Hall in another life. But a night out at a bar? For the first time in his life, Kylo's wardrobe fails him, and the thought keeps him up longer than it should that night. He falls asleep contemplating the fine line between discord and harmony, between dark and light, between hanging out and going on a date.


Black hasn't gone out of style as far as Kylo's concerned, so he puts his faith in a leather jacket that hasn't seen the light of day since his touring years and pulls up outside of the small brick cantina with five minutes to spare. He parks the motorcycle, fiddles with the keys for longer than necessary, and leaves the helmet at the door before he can chicken out and speed home.

She's already inside, staking out a space at the gleaming wooden bar. For a Thursday, the cantina is crowded, bustling with pool players and social drinkers. And a woman waiting for him. He spots her immediately, through the fog of smoldering joints and the dust of peanut shells, three buns and an impatient twist of her neck as she scans the place.

Knocking back the contents of her tumbler when he approaches, she stands to greet him, peanut shells crunching underfoot. The gauzy yellow dress she wears clings first to the stool in protest when she rises, then to her legs as she steps forward. It's so different from her mechanic's jumpsuit or overalls that Kylo's left gaping like a bantha in heat.

"You don't have to do this," she says by way of hello.

Now's the time for Kylo to break out a witty retort; even a simple "I'm here, aren't I?" would suffice. But that karking dress and the grin she suppresses upon spotting him at the entrance has him blurting out, "You look beautiful."

Beautiful. Not gorgeous, not stunning, not like sunlight on a winter's day. Beautiful. Kylo wills the dingy floor to open up and devour him. By the scuffed floorboards' creaking as he shifts nervously, his wish might come true.

Uncouth as his comment is, it draws a smile from her that flickers hungrily when she takes in his appearance. "You look…" He doesn't know whether to panic or relax when she trails off in favor of looking him up and down again. When he sits and accidentally bumps her shoulder with his, she doesn't move to make room. Even through the leather jacket, Kylo feels her radiating heat. So this is Rey away from the piano. He thinks he likes her even more now if that's possible.

She wastes no time in calling the bartender over for another Sarlacc Kicker. The name makes Kylo wince, but the bartender only winks at the order, muscles rippling under his tight orange tee as he reaches for a bottle of sunfruit liquor. Mixing the drink with a little too much flair for Kylo's liking, the bartender never takes his eyes off of Rey, whose eyes widen when he pours pineapple juice from an unreasonable height without spilling. After topping the drink with a maraschino cherry, the bartender slides it to his captive audience, the scar on his cheek stretching as he declares, "On me if you can tie the stem."

Lined up in neat rows wider than Rey is tall, the bottles behind the bar refract the yellow lights twinkling above them. They highlight the sharpness of her cheekbones and glint off the whites of her teeth when she grins wolfishly at the challenge. Before Rey reaches for the refill, Kylo slams a twenty on the bar, startling his companion. "Keep the change," he growls.

Faster than the bartender can pick up the bill, Rey clamps the cherry between her white wolf teeth. As she sucks down the cherry with a purse of her lips, she catches Kylo's eyes and winks. Internally he curses himself for his involuntary gulp that doesn't escape her scrutiny. He also curses the bartender, who is doing a poor job of pretending to wipe down the bar as he watches Rey's mouth contort around the stem.

"An Alderaanian beer, please." Kylo relishes the bartender's frown as he turns from the show and walks to the taps. With just Kylo watching, Rey bites her lip before resuming the struggle. Her frustration builds in her balling fists, her tapping feet.

Just when Kylo thinks she's given up, Rey gives a garbled shout. Pinching the stem between thumb and forefinger, she holds it up in a victory salute. "Didn't know if I could pull that off," she whispers, her lips brushing the shell of Kylo's ear.

To the bartender she says, "You owe me a drink."

He plucks the prize from her grasp. "So I do." His fingers linger over hers.

"The beer?" Kylo prompts, anything to tear the man's hands from Rey's. Thirty seconds later, a freshly poured pint arrives.

The bartender makes a show of smoothing out the twenty dollar bill Kylo flung at him earlier and proffering it to Rey. "Keep the change," he drawls, slipping away.

As his mind conjures up a myriad of uses for Rey's tongue, Kylo digs his nails into the cracked leather of his stool. He takes a sip of the beer, and a second for good measure. All foam at first, it does little to quench his thirsty imagination.

Turning to find her leaning towards him, he draws a ragged breath, tasting sickly-sweet smoke mingled with sweat and trying not to choke. "What a mess," Rey admonishes, running her thumb along the foam coating his lip. She moves to wipe it on her skirt, until he catches hold of her wrist.

"Don't make a bigger mess." A request that Rey interprets as another challenge. So she strikes, painting the foam on his cheek with a lightning-fast caress that propels Kylo's heartbeat to the roof.

Clearly Rey didn't wait for Kylo to get started drinking, and the effects show before Kylo finishes his first beer. As it turns out, she's a lightweight. He had suspected as much when he confiscated the Corellian wine during the rain storm. Would that he had the same good sense now as he did then, that he'd ease the glass from her grip, coax her into a speeder cab, and send her home. But thin tendrils of hair curl against the nape of her neck, and her dress glows in the fairy lights that rim the bar, and whenever she laughs too hard she reaches for his arm to stabilize herself. She invited him here, he justifies. It would be rude to cut their evening short when it's just begun.

Thirty minutes and one shared basket of fries later, Kylo wonders why he had entertained the thought of leaving. Conversation with Rey has never flowed so easily, despite the thump of bottles, boots and pool balls keeping time with the bass thrumming overhead. She takes his stilted pauses in stride, lets the conversation ebb and flow like the Tevraki whiskey now swilling in her cup. That is, until she discovers how he arrived at the bar.

"You have a bike and you didn't tell me?" she exclaims, tongue thick as lead. "Kylo Ren, master of the piano, rider of Harleys."

"It's just a Falcon," he says, tracing the cantina's logo etched on his glass.

Her eyes bug out alarmingly. "Just a Falcon? The suspension on those bikes, even after all these years, is still top of the line. They swear you can't feel the cracks in the highway."

Music might come naturally to Rey, but machines are her element. Her enthusiasm gleams neon, eclipsing the twinkle lights strung overhead. Kylo basks in her glow, eager to stoke its fire. "A couple years back, I installed front forks when it started to wear. Back to new."

Disbelief pushes her forward until their shoulders brush. "You're lying."

He swivels to fully face her, knees resting against her thighs. "I never lied to you." Not really.

Her laughter is luminescent. "How have we spent the last three months together without this coming up?" Kylo rolls the word around in his mouth: together. It slipped off her tongue so quickly he wonders if he imagined it. "Forget the Silencer, I'm coming over for the Falcon."

"We're not done with lessons yet."

"That bike is wasted on you."

"I've kept it in peak condition forty years after production." Keeping the pride from his voice takes too much effort.

"I'd kill to work on a bike like that, let alone own one," she admits. "Not like that'll ever happen."

"Why not?" Lost in studying her face, he almost misses her snort.

"Couldn't pick up enough extra shifts to cover the monthly payments, even if I can do the maintenance work at cost. I already started working Saturdays to pay for piano—" The rose in her cheeks fades as she bites off her sentence and washes it down with whiskey.

"Rey." She doesn't look up. "Rey." He lays a hand on her arm. It trembles. "You're working extra to pay for lessons."

No response. Under his touch, her pulse pounds erratically. The bottles behind the bar glisten, taunting him. "If I had known—"

"How did you get your hands on a Silencer anyway?" Bitter is a new flavor for Rey; Kylo doesn't like the taste. "Sugar pine ribs, solid spruce bases, finished in mahogany. Even a skilled piano teacher like yourself can't afford it."

Jerking free, he downs the rest of the pint, a transparent stalling tactic that Rey sees right through. "A gift."

They sit like that for a while, letting the smoke and noise roil over their shame. She calls for another drink, her fourth in so many hours. The bartender with the orange tee and scarred cheek cheerfully supplies her with more whiskey. A few generous sips later, she leans over to Kylo, wavering atop her stool. "You hafta let me take the Falcon for a drive."

He chuckles at her pout and the defiant jut of her chin, juxtaposed against her swaying and slurred speech. "Not tonight."

"I can handle your bike," she yawns.

"I know."

"You're good with cars. More than good," he amends as her eyes narrow. "I could use your help with the Falcon. Recently the engine started making some strange noises."

"Time for an oil change?" she ribs.

The only dignified response is to hold up a finger and wait for her snark to take a backseat to her curiosity. Sure enough, Rey quiets. "I want your mechanical knowledge. You want my piano. I propose a trade."

Although it takes a beat longer than it should, the unspoken message registers with Rey. "No—no, I couldn't."

"Do it," he urges. "It's not a gift. You need a teacher. I need one, too."

As she mulls the prospect over, he resists the urge to pound his head against the bar. Anything to quell his worry rising up in the absence of a clear response. She squints at their reflections swimming in the bottles across the bar before nodding slowly. "A trade."

"A trade."

She fumbles for her glass, nearly shattering its stem, and holds it aloft. A toast that Kylo is too eager to complete. A few drops of her scarlet drink splash on his leather jacket when their glasses meet.

When she regards the mess, her eyes are too bright, glassy under the fairy lights. "I like your jacket," she says conspiratorially, patting at the spill with the hem of her sunshine dress. The gauzy fabric soaks up the drink. The red bloom unsettles Kylo into prying her hands from the dress and pushing her glass out of reach.

"That's mine," she mumbles, sloppily moving to push his hands out of the way.

He whisks the cocktail from her grasping clutches. "No more tonight."

"Next time." It's more slur than speech, but Kylo clings to the promise with unexpected fervor.

"Next time," he agrees, guiding her from the stool, through the minefield of pool tables and merry patrons, and into the brisk Chandrila night. A smattering of stone benches populate the sidewalk outside Zorii's. One is occupied by a snoring patron who reeks of gin, even through the overcoat turned makeshift blanket. A second bench is empty, save for a few discarded coffee cups. Kylo helps Rey sit, shrugging off his jacket and wrapping it around her shoulders before throwing away the trash and joining her at the opposite end of the bench.

"Let's get you home."

The vehemence with which she shakes her head surprises him. "Not yet. Please."

"Okay." So they wait until the cold of the stone seeps through their clothes and into their bones. It's late when Rey stirs. By then, most revelers have departed Zorii's, leaving only the regulars tucked in for the night at their booths.

Her whole frame shakes when she stands, despite the borrowed jacket. Once she stands, Kylo jumps to his feet, ignoring the ache blossoming at the base of his spine. Every hair on his arms stands at attention, whether from the cold or her proximity he can't tell. "Let me get my helmet," he says, ducking back into the bar.

When he reemerges from the cantina, helmet in hand, Rey extracts herself from his jacket and holds it out, but he shakes his head. "You'll need it."

"Are you offering me a ride?"

There's no need to call for a speeder cab when he's certain he can drive after two pints spread out over a few hours, with fries to soak them up. A smaller man than Kylo might still feel their effects, but his size rendered him coherent soon after he settled up the tab. No size, however, inoculates him against the warmth Rey prompts in his stomach, nor the buzz she ignites in his brain.

"I don't have a second helmet." He nearly shudders at the note of apology warming his tone.

Outside there are no fairy lights or neon signs to illuminate her face. But the moon holds court over the stars, and its light is enough for Kylo to make out the glint in Rey's eyes. "You're offering me a ride."

He leads her to his bike, parked within view of their bench. "A Falcon!" she exclaims again, shaking her head in wonderment as she swings a leg over the saddle. "Shit, Kylo, what else are you hiding?"

His helmet won't slide over her neat row of buns, so she reaches up to undo them. Only once the first elastic tangles beyond repair does she look to Kylo for help. He combs the snarl from her hair and lets down the other two knots until her hair streams free. Ignoring how she practically purrs when he runs his fingers through her scalp demands all his willpower. Instead he guides her head into the helmet, a full face with silver lines emblazoned across the forehead. A loose fit, but safer than nothing. He hates how his heart speeds at the sight of Rey in his gear.

His friend, he reminds himself as he hefts himself into the saddle and coaxes the Falcon to life. His piano protege, nothing more. She scrabbles for a handhold on the seat they share. "This strap is garbage," she mumbles loud enough for Kylo to hear over the engine's rumble.

"Don't bother with the strap," he warns, but still she simply sniffs.

As the bike belches laboriously and reverses with unexpected speed, she yelps, weaving her arms under his and around his waist with surprising force. Her chest presses against his back, banishing the late autumn chill. Suddenly thankful that he lent her his jacket, Kylo wonders if the bike is overheating or just him. Between the Falcon's age and Rey's effect on him, it's a toss-up.

"Tap if you need me to stop," he hollers at the next stop, and then they're off. The directions she gives him send them speeding through town, past Kylo's usual route home down Barbican Road and over the bridge spanning the Eleutherian Plaza.

He pulls up in front of a sagging apartment building after a ride that lasts both the blink of an eye and the span of eternity. Too soon, her arms unwind from their knot around his stomach; the late autumn chill steals their place. She sways in place after disembarking, not from the drinks but from something softer.

Under the streetlight, her cheekbones gleam, speckled with freckles. A snowmelt shadow limns her eyes. The evening settles thick on Kylo's shoulders, not unlike the leather jacket cocooning Rey. It prompts him to engage the kickstand, step over the saddle and onto the sidewalk outside her peeling place.

The roots of a gnarled tintolive tree gnaw at the pavement underfoot. When Rey takes a step forward, they clutch at her feet and demand she steady herself against Kylo. He makes no move to step away. She pushes his hair back before he realizes it's fallen in his face. Her fingers streak gold across his cheeks.

"You have that look in your eye," she says. "The one from the spare room."

Maybe he does. Maybe not. All Kylo knows is the tilt of her chin, the yellow of her dress, the husk in her voice never present before. He steps forward. Their toes meet, then their chests as his arms draw her in, palms slick against the leather. Her hands flicker from his back to his waist, finally sinking into his chest. Dyad heartbeats under a harvest moon.

A piece by Yakimoto springs to mind when she leans in to kiss him: a dozen staccato notes, spanned over two octaves. Half notes, quarter notes, the pebbling of stars into existence. Then a series of rests eclipsing each star, stretching into disquieting emptiness. Another trill, frenetic and discordant. The sound of distant galaxies colliding.

Rey leans in—Kylo strains to meet her—and it's tongue against teeth, and Kylo's left seeing stars.