"Go lay down."

It was an order, but the hardness in his voice sounded artificial. You glanced up, rising to your feet. Soft sheets greeted you when you climbed into the bed, smooth against your skin, capturing warmth. It was one of the better things he'd commanded you to do.

You peeped over the thickness of the comforter after a few minutes had passed. He still sat in the chair, head in his hands, crouched over. He wasn't joining you.

The ceiling stared back, the quiet in the room slowly growing defeating.

"When I was little," you started, daring to stretch out, "when I worked at the factory—" Well, you didn't really work at the factory, you were enslaved there.

You cleared your throat.

"One day I escaped. The supervisor had left the room to sign for a shipment, and I just ran. Like, just made a break for it." You took a breath, not bothering to look at him. "Mostly the other kids thought I was crazy, but a few came with me. We ran until we couldn't anymore; then we walked for a while instead. We finally stopped by this cliff—the cliff at the edge of the city. We picked some berries nearby and just sat there, looking down at the jungle. We got caught eventually, got sent back, got our asses handed to us for a long time over it. But in those few moments, I mean… it was worth it. Like, it's terrible sometimes, but there are these perfect life moments, and that's enough."

Heat spread over your face as the silence crept back into the air. The squeak of a chair on the metal floor followed a moment later before his figure loomed over you.

You swallowed the lump in your throat and rolled on your side, lips twitching as you watched yourself reach out and grasp the covers. You peeled them back. He looked down at you, something unreadable etched on his face.

Then he unzipped his tunic, holding your gaze and tossing it and his cowl aside. You ignored the uncomfortable pounding in your chest as his hands crossed in front of him, grasping either side of his shirt, pulling it up and over his head. He tossed it down with his belt before taking a step forward—somehow simultaneously menacing and timid. Boots were kicked off a moment later and he paused, jaw bobbing for a small moment as if he had swallowed hard.

I won't tell if you won't.

The bed shifted to accommodate his weight, a peppered chest coming to rest next to you. Your eyes traced over the small marks; you couldn't remember noticing them before. A large vein poked out from his right shoulder, working its way down his arm, pulsing with his heartbeat.

He sighed heavily, wrenching your eyes away from his body.

"What am I going to do with you?" he asked, deep voice thick with something that made you flinch. Fear constricted your heart; your mouth ran dry.

"Seeing as you kidnapped and brought me here, I thought you'd have some idea."

Any other day, you were sure he would've beaten you—but today he simply hardened his stare, losing himself deeper in thought.

"I thought I did," he said quietly, solemn in his response.

You rolled onto your back, staring at the ceiling again. If your life was in danger, it was at least not an immediate threat. But there was something—a problem. A problem with keeping you that he didn't seem to feel before.

You turned your head after a few quiet moments, eyes studying his face. He looked more angular than before—tired, and worried, and something else. Afraid. He looked starved.

Your hand closed around his before you could stop it.

He sighed. "Stupid girl." You flinched, though he didn't pull his hand away. "You're young and naïve. You don't know anything about me."

Your lip quivered, little beads of tears forming in your eyes. He huffed again as though disgusted by your emotion. Your eyes drifted to where your hands met; he objected but had done nothing to swat you away. The skin there was warm on yours; you always expected cold, yet he defied you every time. Instead, the contact felt almost comforting, even if unreciprocated.

"You're right," you murmured. His eyes flicked to yours. "I don't. But I'll listen to anything you tell me."

He looked away and swallowed hard again, face twisting in part anger and part something-else. There was clear conflict written on his features—and whatever it was about, you were not making it easier.

Leaning into him, you nuzzled his chest. Warm skin met yours again; your eyelashes fluttered a bit as you heard his heart beat, daring to start weaving your fingers between his.

Silence fell heavy and defeating, threatening to crush you under its weight. Then he started to sit up, pulling his hand out of yours. This was it: it was over. He didn't want this; didn't want you to press up against him or say nice things. He was going to resolve whatever problem he had. You were going to get kil—

A long arm had reached across you. He'd grabbed a pillow from above you and placed it, cool but soft, against your back. It supported you when you rolled back, keeping you propped against him comfortably. Your lips parted, eyes watching him tense two fingers—the lights went off, obeying his silent command, one large hand pushing the sweater up and palming the curve of your waist.

It was your turn to swallow hard.

Hesitantly, you placed a hand on his chest in return. When silence fell again, it wasn't suffocating: there was almost something peaceful about it. Your fingers brushed over a small dip in his chest, thumb circling back to feel it.

"I broke my sternum a while ago," he mumbled, voice rumbling through the chest you pressed close to. Apparently, he was in your head again.

"I wish you wouldn't read my mind," you protested,

He scoffed lightly. "Minds aren't books, you don't read them."

You didn't bother to look up at him in your confusion; it was too dark, and somehow you could see his expression without looking. You could sense him.

"You can only see what's presented," he volunteered. "Memories, feelings—they can be false. Planted. Obviously, yours aren't. But it's not like reading something off a page-especially not when you're practically screaming your thoughts at me."

"'Screaming my thoughts at you'?" This time, confusion clearly colored your voice.

He seemed to nod his head somewhere above you. "Your thoughts are so loud. Inescapable."

He had said it before. Your thoughts are loud to me, and clear. It was part of why I chose you…

"What is it usually like, then?" you found yourself asking, too curious to restrain yourself.

He made a small noise of thought, thumb absentmindedly stroking the dip of your waist. It was almost a caress; you were ashamed that you leaned into it.

"Usually you have to go looking; you have to focus and want to think what they think or feel what they feel. But not with you…" he trailed off, chewing on his lip.

"Why am I different?"

He shrugged. "Wouldn't I like to know."

"How did you break it?" you asked suddenly, one finger tracing between the little marks on his chest.

"Hm?"

"Your sternum."

"Speeder accident."

The timbre of his voice sent a little shiver down your spine; there was something odd and unique in it. It wasn't the voice of a tyrant-and yet it was.

You sucked on the corner of your lip. "I'm not sure I can imagine you on a speeder." A smile played on your lips just thinking about it.

No such smile was reflected in his voice. "It was a long time ago," he said stiffly.

You nodded compliantly against his chest—an assurance you wouldn't press further. He seemed to relax a little; his other arm snaked under your shoulders, pulling you against him so that he held you.

"How do you do it? You know, make things float," you blubbered stupidly. It felt safe in the moment to ask a question like this, though you still held your breath nervously. His touch was as tender as it ever had been, but it was clearer than ever that you were cuddled up to something dangerous. Unstable.

"'Float'," he echoed. You could hear him smirk. "The force," he replied simply after a moment.

You waited for more; when he volunteered nothing, you pulled a hand out from under the covers and held it out like he did sometimes—but nothing flew to you.

He chuckled. "It doesn't work like that. You have to be force-sensitive."

"How's that?"

"You're… just born with it," he murmured quietly.

"Oh." You must have sounded dejected, because he chuckled again. "But, like, how? Like what if you just wanted to hold your hand out?"

"Mhm," he smiled against your forehead. "You have to picture what you want and channel an emotion to get it—like fuel."

You blinked. That was much more technical than you'd imagined. You gave a nod and pressed against his chest again, closing your eyes. Something small fluttered in your belly when he patted you approvingly.

You're snuggling the commander of the First Order you crazy traitorous b—

You killed the thought, shoving it down and watching it drown. This felt nice. That's what mattered.

Glancing down at your tattooed finger, its writing seemed to glow in time with the swell inside you. "You've nice handwriting," you murmured, holding your finger up a bit. It was dark, but you were sure he could see as clear as you could.

"Mhm," he murmured again, brushing against your hair. "I used to have a calligraphy set."

You paused, considering the new information as you stared at your hand. Calligraphy. He didn't seem like the type. "I would've thought you would be the guy to start fight clubs and set things on fire."

He made a small noise against the top of your head. "I think I did that, too."

Something warm and foreign and strange flowed between you. You fell quiet, dropping your hand and burying it back under the covers. His held you, fingers occasionally brushing down to your hip or up your back. The head above you tilted back to rest on a pillow, his breath slowly becoming shallow.

"People are never as one dimensional as we want them to be," you whispered at last, eyelids growing heavy. They fluttered closed as he answered.

"No," he said quietly, "they're not."