Chapter 1: Keep Sweet
Chapter Text
Sunday mornings in Elmridge are all but choreographed. After the final hymn fades beneath the vaulted ceiling of St. Agnes Church, the congregation pour out onto the stone steps in pastel clusters, like sugar cubes dissolving under the hot sun. White gloves are snapped back on, hats adjusted, heels clacking across the concrete among the soft chatter, the scent of sugar and sun-warmed pastry hanging thick in the air.
Rey follows her mother out into the churchyard, adjusting her gloves and smoothing her buttery yellow skirt as she goes. Her shoes pinch a little, and the sun is already warming the asphalt, but no one in Elmridge complains on a Sunday. Not in heels. Not in front of God.
Her father parts from them both to make conversation with his colleagues, chattering about recent changes in the market and the latest in car manufacturing. These events are one of the only times Rey doesn’t feel his presence. Doesn’t feel the grip of a hand on the back of her neck.
Down by the folding tables, the church bake sale is already in full swing. There are loaves of banana bread wrapped in plastic, lemon bars sweating in their trays, and Mrs. Tico’s famed vanilla sheet cake holding court beneath a lace-draped umbrella.
Rey stands off to the side, chatting with her friend Rose as they watch a group of boys from school try to one-up each other carrying boxes of baked goods to the donation car.
“I don’t know why they bother," Rose rolls her eyes, arms crossed tightly against her chest, eyes narrowed as one of the taller boys, Snap Wexley, pretends to nearly drop a box of cupcakes. “Mama says showing off for attention is just asking for a scraped knee and a bad reputation.”
Rey glances at Rose sideways, biting back a smile. “And what about choir practice last week?”
“That,” Rose says primly, “was performance. Entirely different. Artistic expression.”
“Chrissy said you nearly knocked her off the risers,” Rey smirks, unable to keep the teasing out of her voice, “twice.”
Rose’s mouth opens indignantly. “Chrissy Anders would say anything to make herself look good. She could trip over her own shoelaces and blame it on Eisenhower if someone believed it.”
Reys laughs quietly, covering her mouth with her gloved hand, enjoying the momentary ease. But the brief quiet is quickly interrupted by her mother’s voice drifting sharply across the yard.
“Reyline! Darling!”
Rose arches an eyebrow. “Sounds like you’re being summoned.”
Rey sighs softly. Her Mother is stationed behind the pie table in her best blue dress and pillbox hat, back straight, chin proud as she slices her famous cherry lattice with precision. A woman who prides herself on two things: her God and her pie crust.
“Won’t you be a dear and help with the rhubarb,” she calls. “I can’t slice and serve and make change all at once!”
Rey mutters a goodbye to Rose and crosses the grass, brushing crumbs from her skirt and careful not to step in the lawn divots. She’s barely picked up the knife when she realizes her mother isn’t alone. A cluster of women stand around the table, parasols bobbing, gloves fluttering. Mrs. Anders, with her pearls and wine-breath laugh; the younger Mrs. DeMarco, pretending her lipstick isn’t smudged while her husband makes small talk with his boss; and a quiet Mrs. Powell, who always looks like she’d rather be somewhere else.
Mrs. Anders leans forward, her voice low and honeyed. “I hear he’s coming today.”
“Who?” Rey asks, blinking through the sunlight.
Mrs. Powell smiles faintly. “Mr. Solo. He’s been at church twice since his wife passed, but he never stays for the social.”
“Haven’t you got better to do than keep count, Shirley?” Rey’s mother chastises, batting away her friends’ hand as she reaches for the cherry bakewells.
“Oh, like you don’t notice, Eleanor.” Mrs. Powell rolls her eyes, managing to steal one of the small pies before she can get swatted again.
Rey turns her head slightly, pretending to adjust the pie trays.
“It’s not like he isn’t loaded. Every man here quivers in his sight. I’m pretty sure he could get all our husbands fired the moment he wanted to,” Mrs. Anders rolls her eyes.
“Well, I’m sure your husband will stay in line, Eileen,” Rey’s mother says with a clipped tone.
Mrs. DeMarco laughs under her breath. “Poor thing. Imagine, back from the war, only to lose his wife before spring…” she trailed off, pretending to sip from her paper cup.
“It’s such a shame. I heard his wife died suddenly. Fell down the stairs. Can you imagine?” Mrs. Powell cuts in.
“Well, she was a delicate little thing…” Rey’s mother trails off as she puts away another of the empty foil trays.
“Still wears his wedding ring, you know.” Mrs. Anders murmurs behind her hand. “I can’t even begin to imagine being all alone in that house.”
Mrs. DeMarco tsks, fanning herself. “No wife to feed him. No one to press his shirts. Alone in that house like a widower in a Brontë novel. A man like that shouldn’t be left to eat tinned soup and burnt toast.”
“Oh, don’t pretend you wouldn’t march over there with a roast if you had the excuse,” Mrs. Powell scoffs.
“I’d do more than march,” Mrs. DeMarco mutters with a wink.
Rey blushes and focuses intently on the pie. But something inside her prickles. Mr. Solo. The name has a kind of weight.
She remembers him vaguely. Broad shouldered, dark-haired, rarely speaking. Always in a pressed white shirt, collar buttoned, even in the summer. She’s only seen him from a distance, but his silence is more noticeable than most men’s noise.
And then the air shifts.
The women behind her stand upright and Mrs. DeMarco’s fanning becomes a rapid movement.
Rey feels it before she sees him. The way the crowd seems to pull taught, conversations softening only slightly. She follows the tilt of the women’s heads.
Mr. Solo is making his way down the church steps. Alone.
He’s dressed in charcoal slacks and a crisp white shirt with the sleeves rolled once at the elbow. No hat. No tie. Just him, tall and solid, with a face that never gives anything away. Not grief. Not interest. Not anger. Just stillness.
Rey blushes as she watches him. He's tall, she thinks. Not like the kind of tall where you think to yourself, "oh, he could pick me up." No. He is absolutely massive in every sense of the word. His dark hair falls around his collar, with tendrils curling slightly around his face in a way that makes him look effortlessly tidy, but with something there that says "I didn't stand in front of a mirror with hairspray," like her father does.
He walks with his hands in his pockets as he reaches the bottom of the steps, greeting Pastor Hux before turning to the congregation and calculating his first move. Rey turns to the pies, wondering which one he might pick if he happens to come over.
Rhubarb, she thinks.
“Speak of the devil,” Mrs. Anders murmurs into her paper cup of lemonade.
Rey’s mother straightens, one hand on the pie knife, the other smoothing the tablecloth.
Mr. Solo stops a few feet from the table, gaze flickering briefly across the pies. His eyes are dark, thoughtful, his hands held behind his back. Rey feels the stirrings of curiosity twist into something sharper. She glances at him again. He isn’t beautiful, not in the clean, magazine way boys are. But he has a gravity. Like he owns the space around him without asking.
“Mr. Solo,” her mother smiles as he approaches. “We were just saying how lovely it is to see you here.”
“How kind of you, Eleanor,” he says with a smile and a nod of his head. “The lemon’s gone?” he asks, his brows furrowing.
“You’re a nick too late!” her mother says playfully. “But the rhubarb’s still warm. Reyline, dear, fix the man a slice.”
Rey steps forward before she realizes her breath has caught. She cuts a perfect triangle and lifts it onto a plate with a practiced ease that belies the sudden dryness in her throat. Mr. Solo’s eyes land on her briefly. They don’t linger, but they don’t avoid her either. She feels the heat rush to her cheeks.
He looks at her when she hands it to him. Not too long, but his eyes hold hers for a beat too many. Just long enough for her to look away.
“Thank you,” he says, his voice low and clipped.
Rey’s mother jumps in, voice rising to a tone meant to carry: “You know, Mr. Solo, our church has a little outreach program. We send the girls ‘round to help out. Shopping, tidying, that sort of thing. A good way to serve the Lord and learn some skills. My Reyline’s been looking for something useful to do with her afternoons, haven’t you, sweetheart?”
Rey’s eyes widen, just slightly. Her mother hadn’t said a word about this. “Oh, but Mama-“
Mr. Solo shakes his head, polite but firm. “That’s kind of you, but unnecessary.”
“Oh, now don’t be silly” her mother insists, laughing as if it’s a joke. “A man working full days can’t be expected to cook for himself. And what kind of a mother would I be if I didn’t raise a girl who could keep a proper home?”
Rey looks at her shoes.
The silence stretches. His eyes land on her again, though more direct this time, as his gaze sweeps over her in a pass that makes Rey's back straighten.
Then Mr. Solo speaks. “Twice a week,” he says finally. “If it suits her.”
“Oh, it suits her just fine!” Her mother beams with a hand on her shoulder before Rey can answer for herself, as if he’d just accepted a marriage proposal. “It’s be our pleasure, isn’t it, Reyline?”
“Yes, Mama,” Rey murmurs.
Mr. Solo nods once and turns, pie in hand, disappearing into the crowd without another word. He doesn’t say goodbye.
As soon as he’s gone, Mrs. DeMarco leans in, her voice dripping with delight. “If I were ten years younger, I’d be begging to deliver casseroles.”
But Rey isn’t listening. She’s watching Mr. Solo’s back retreat into the crowd, her stomach twisting with something that isn’t quite fear, before her mother's voice startles her back to her senses.
"Reyline," her mother says briskly, tapping the table. "Your gloves, dear. Don't slouch."
"Yes, Mama," she replies automatically, straightening herself. Her gaze darts briefly back across the yard, but Mr. Solo has already moved on, disappearing behind a group of churchgoers after shaking the hands of a group of men in the congregation, including the pastor.
Her fingers tighten around the pie knife, feeling a strange prickle at the back of her neck, like someone watching from a distance, but no one is looking.
No one ever really does.
When the crowd finally begins to thin, Rey helps her mother pack up the remaining pies, folding the lace tablecloth and stacking empty foil trays. The heat is still cloying, and her dress clings uncomfortably to her skin.
Rose finds her again, lingering near the now abandoned lemonade stand, looking flushed from arguing with her younger brother.
"Did you see him?" Rose whispers eagerly, eyes wide.
Rey keeps her face neutral. "Who?"
"Mr. Solo!" Rose rolls her eyes impatiently. "My Daddy mentions him all the time but I've never actually seen him. He looked exactly as I thought he would - miserable."
Rey huffs a laugh, unable to keep a small smile from her lips. "He just seems... serious. Besides, his wife just died."
Rose tilts her head thoughtfully. "Mama says men who don't smile probably have dark secrets."
Rey's stomach flutters strangely, a feeling something like dread, though she isn't sure why. "Your Mama also says Chrissy is a darling girl."
Rose snorts quietly. "Chrissy's about as darling as a mosquito."
Rey laughs despite herself, grateful for Rose's knack for turning everything into something to laugh at.
She glances back at her mother who is carefully stacking pies. Rey steps closer, lowering her voice so only Rose can hear.
"Mama just volunteered me to help at Mr. Solo's house. Twice a week."
Rose's eyes widen, turning to look at Rey. "She did what?"
Rey shrugs helplessly. "Apparently it's good for me."
Rose looks briefly scandalized, then a sly smile curves her lips. "That sounds dreadfully boring, but at least you can find out if he really does eat cold soup and the souls of happy people."
Rey shakes her head, but can't stop the nervous smile that tugs at her mouth. "You're terrible."
Rose loops her arm through Rey's, leaning closer. "And you're stuck," she teases gently. "Poor thing. Alone in that big house with nothing but a grumpy old widower."
Rey rolls her eyes, but her stomach twists slightly again. She glances back at the empty church steps where Mr. Solo had stood.
As they walk back toward the dwindling crowd, the air around her feels warmer than before. Rose chats brightly, moving from topic to topic, but Rey's thoughts drift, pulled back to the quiet, serious man who'd left nothing behind but an empty pie plate and a strange, heavy feeling at the base of her throat.
It's nothing, she decides firmly.
It's just the heat.
Chapter Text
At dinner, they don’t ask her. They tell her.
“It’s good for us, Reyline.”
Her mother says it like it's grace before a meal. Like it's already settled.
Good for "us," Rey almost scoffs. Good for them, she means.
The fan clicks uselessly in the corner of the dining room, turning in slow, lazy circles as her mother sets the last bowl down with practiced care. Roast beef, boiled potatoes, and overdone green beans collapsing in their bowl like they've given up, like every Monday. The table is set with ironed linens and the good plates, as if dinner might be judged from outside the window.
Rey smooths the back of her dress before sitting. Her father is already at the head of the table, sleeves rolled up to his forearms, the knot of his tie half-undone. The house still smells faintly of motor oil and sweat from when he walked in earlier, dropping his keys onto the entryway table. He’s already downed half a glass of scotch before plates hit the table.
“Your hands are clean?” her mother asks, not looking up.
“Yes, Mama.”
“You’ll start with the dusting,” her mother says, spooning green beans onto Rey’s plate. “Cooking. Kitchen cabinets. Windowsills. Don’t touch his bedroom unless he asks.”
Rey looks up, fighting the sigh that threatens to leave her. “I haven’t said yes.”
Her father fixes her with a pointed glare. “You’re going. Your yes wasn’t required.”
“But Daddy, you hardly even know him,” Rey murmurs, pushing the green beans around her plate with her fork.
This time, her father slams his own fork down. Not quite violent, but enough to make the table jump.
“You don’t need to know the man to obey an order,” he scolds. “You’ll do as your mother told you. You’ll show up, you’ll speak when spoken to, you’ll smile, and you won’t embarrass this family.”
Her mother picks up the gravy boat with a graceful smile, as though nothing’s happened. “Think of it like learning, sweetheart. A girl should know how to be useful in a man’s home. You’ll thank me for it when the right one comes along. Besides, Mr. Solo is a very important man at your father’s company, dear. This could be good for us.”
Rey swallows hard, fighting every urge to drop her cutlery and complain. Why should she be spending her days cleaning somebody else’s house? Especially when Ozzie and Harriet is on, or when Rose is free to make bracelets together and talk about the girls at school. Like how Chrissy Anders was seen getting into Poe Dameron’s car after classes, and how her mother definitely didn’t know that was happening.
Across from her, her father lifts his glass, eyes sharp behind his wire-rimmed spectacles. “Men like that notice a girl who does as she’s told. It’ll look good. You’ll do as you’re told to.”
“He’s respected, sweetheart,” her mother adds, her voice softer but no less pointed. “High up. People listen when he speaks. And he asked for you personally.”
“No, he didn’t,” Rey says all too quickly.
Her mother waves it off as if swatting at an invisible fly. “Well, he agreed, didn’t he? That’s more than he does for most.”
“You make it sound like a favor,” Rey mutters under her breath.
“It is a favor,” her father says, his tone clipped and leaving no room for argument. “To us.”
Rey looks down at her plate. The gravy is starting to seep into her potatoes, drowning them into something grey and lumpy
There’s no warmth in the house tonight, only rules, silence, and the clinking of cutlery. Her mother fusses with the gravy, her father finishes his food and resumes sipping on his drink, and Rey chews each bite like it might fight back, feeling like if she breathes too loudly, she'll flip the whole table over.
“He’s a widower,” her mother says as she pours more water into Rey’s glass. Rey notes how gently she says it, like it's something fragile.
“All the more reason he needs company. A woman’s touch in the home,” her father adds with an assured nod.
“Well, she’s still just a girl, honey,” her mother replies, her voice wavering a pinch.
“She’s nearly sixteen,” her father replies, folding his napkin and placing it on the table. “And if she’s old enough to marry, she’s old enough to be useful.”
Rey's fork slips a little in her hand and she can barely taste anything now.
Her father turns to her. “You’ll be polite. You’ll be quiet. You’ll wear something decent, not like those damn girls on the television. If I hear a word about you making a fool of yourself, I’ll make sure you don’t leave this house until some boy puts a ring on your finger. Got it?”
Rey nods once, feeling very small. “Yes, sir.”
And so, the next morning, her mother sends her off with a smile and a wave after kissing her on the forehead like she's off to a birthday party, smiling sweetly but fussing with the collar of Rey's dress like she's straightening a napkin.
Outside, the air is already heavy and wet, the kind of cloying, sticky heat that makes her socks stick to her ankles before she even reaches the corner.
Rey walks slowly down Sycamore Lane, her polished shoes pinching at the heels. The sun hasn't even hit its stride yet, but already her dress clings in the wrong places, heat creeping up on her neck. She doesn’t know if she’s walking carefully or dragging her feet, but either way, her mother’s watching from the porch, so she keeps her back straight and her knees together like she’s been taught.
Her gingham apron is folded neatly in her bag, tucked beside a crumpled love fortune card she made with Rose and a lollipop she’d stuck back in the wrapper.
In her arms is a bag full of groceries her mother had prepared, telling Rey that everything she could possibly need would be inside it, alongside a small book of recipes that she had painstakingly written down. She wraps her arms around the paper bag tightly, while in her hands is a neatly arranged bundle of sugar cookies in wax paper, still warm. Her mother had taken her to the store this morning to buy the box-mix and insisted that Rey bring them to Mr. Solo’s house, refusing to let her daughter leave without an offering.
She thought they turned out sweet. Soft. Good.
Her mother had said nothing about them when she left this morning, only kissed her head and whispered, “Make yourself helpful, Reyline. And don’t fidget with your bracelet while you talk to him.”
Rey looks down at her wrist. The silver charms catch the sunlight as she moves – little things: a star, a bunny, a ballerina mid-pirouette.
She passes Mrs. Anders’ house, where a fresh basket of white linens flaps on the porch railing. Across the street, someone’s lawn sprinkler ticks rhythmically, casting rainbows into the dry morning air. A boy on a bicycle waves at her as he passes, and she smiles and turns her gaze to her feet.
She thinks of Rose, how they were supposed to go to the dime store this afternoon to look at lipstick colors - though Rey never picks any - and flip through the newest magazines filled with laughing women and lists of ways to please your husband. Rose had promised she’d make them matching friendship bracelets with pink beads if she could find some on sale, the kind that look like candy. Rey had smiled and nodded; said she’d come.
And now she won’t.
Rey bites the inside of her cheek.
She catches her reflection in a shop window as she passes: the ribbon in her hair is off-center and her skirt is wrinkling at the sides. Her mother would click her tongue and reach out to fix it, murmuring to her about looking like a girl who was raised right.
She thinks of Rose again, how her best friend would make a joke of all this, teasing that Rey is being forced to play house for some mystery man. "What if he's got a hook for a hand?" she would've whispered. "What if he's got bodies in the basement?"
Rey had rolled her eyes when Rose said it.
But now... the idea of stepping into a house that quiet, that grown-up, all by herself makes her stomach flip.
She lets her thoughts drift to Ozzie and Harriet, and how the kitchens always sparkle, with the tidy little children and the gentle music. Maybe it'll be just like that.
She swallows.
Her shoes tap a little louder on the pavement now as she turns onto Mr. Solo's street, and there's a hush in the air that she doesn't like, like everyone's curtains are drawn just a little tighter. Like every screen door is holding its breath.
She’s never made dinner without her mother breathing down her neck or been allowed to pick out her own dress without being told it was too bright, too tight, too something. And now she’s being sent to help a man she’s never spoken to outside of polite nods at church.
A widower. A man who lives alone. A man no one really knows.
But he’s respectable, her mother said. And respectable men make decisions about people like us.
Rey stops at the end of his driveway.
The cookies in her hands suddenly feel stupid and childish, like bringing a valentine to a funeral. She fidgets with the bracelet on her wrist, flicking the charms nervously with her thumb, then stops the second she remembers her mother's voice telling her not to play with it.
So instead, she clutches the edge of the wax paper tightly, feeling the lump of cookies inside. Maybe they’ll make a good impression. Maybe he’ll say thank you. Maybe he’ll ask what recipe she used and she’ll tell him shyly, tell him how easy it was and he’ll say they remind him of childhood. Maybe, just maybe, he’ll smile.
The porch steps creak beneath her feet, and Rey looks down to notice the lack of a welcome mat. She looks around and finds no planter box, no wind chime or screen door. Just a plain frame, a brass handle, and the heavy stillness of someone who clearly doesn't invite visitors often.
She knocks twice, her bracelet jingling with the movement, and the sound echoes too loudly down the hall beyond the door.
When it finally opens, Mr. Solo is already there, not striding up or brushing off his hands like he was caught mid-task, but waiting, like he'd been standing just behind the door the whole time.
And the smile never comes.
He fills the frame without effort. He seems taller than she remembered, somehow impossibly, and his expression unreadable as usual. His white shirt sleeves are rolled as usual, his collar only one button loose, and suspenders clipped to his trousers. His brown eyes are dark and patient, sweeping over her in one slow pass, from the hem of her pink dress to the bow at her waist, to the way her arms tighten slightly around the paper bag.
“Hello sir, I’m Rey. From the outreach program.” Rey stumbles over her words, trying to smile all too brightly while she speaks despite the pang of discomfort in her chest. Her stomach twists like it does when her father is angry. "You spoke to my Mama yesterday..."
This whole outreach idea is stupid anyways. Besides, what must the neighbors think of a young girl walking into a widowed man’s home all by herself? Without a chaperone, no less.
“You’re early,” he says, his voice deep and level. Rey swallows, shifting her weight as she adjusts the bag on her hip.
“Oh, um- Mama say’s it’s polite,” she answers, immediately too loud, then quieter: “Sir.”
He says nothing to that, and simply steps aside and motions for her to come in.
The house is cooler than outside, but it’s a heavy kind of cool, like a cellar or a chapel. The air smells of lemon polish and something smoky and unfamiliar, faintly metallic. The walls are bare, and the furniture looks expensive, but unloved. There are no clocks ticking.
But there is sound.
Somewhere deeper in the house, a radio murmurs softly, a woman’s voice, bright and composed, floats in from the kitchen.
“…and remember, God wants you to look to your husband for guidance. But a happy home is where you get to flourish…”
Rey barely registers it, but it fills the quiet. Just background noise.
“Sorry,” Mr. Solo speaks, moving as if to step past her. “I can turn that off.”
“No!” Rey rushes to speak, remembering her father’s words: “You’ll be polite. You’ll be quiet.”
“It’s your home Mr. Solo,” she gives her most convincing smile, her eyes pinching at the corners. “Besides, my mother likes to listen to the radio, so I’m used to it being on," she lies.
“Well, then," he says, adjusting his collar. "If you need anything, I’ll be in my office until dinner. Please do not disturb me unless it is absolutely necessary. And the kitchen is to your left.”
She watches apprehensively as he turns his back, the wooden door of the study creaking as he retreats inside to work.
Rey lets out a heavy breath.
Her arms ache from the grocery bag, and the paper rustles as she walks into the kitchen and sets it down on the counter, careful not to let it crinkle too loudly. It rustles anyway, the sound magnified by the uncomfortable quiet that hums in the house.
The kitchen is spotless. Every counter gleams under the thin slivers of sunlight slipping through the perfectly even blinds. Mama sometimes tells her that men from the war can be like that… quiet. Almost too clean.
She slowly unpacks the bag, her eyes darting towards the hallway that leads to Mr. Solo's study. Potatoes, a fresh chicken, carrots tied neatly with twine, a tin of beans, and parsley wrapped carefully in wax paper. She lines them up on the counter, neat and orderly, trying to mimic the feeling she gets from his house: everything in its right place, nothing left to chance.
The radio still murmurs softly - something about obedience, about managing a household, about being grateful. The woman's voice is bright and calm, yet oddly insistent, like the voice Rey's mother uses in church. Rey half-listens as she unfolds her gingham apron, carefully smoothing its fabric before tying it around her waist. She double-checks the bow, straightening it nervously. Mama always says that appearances matter, especially in another person's home.
She's peeling potatoes carefully when she hears movement down the hallway - a subtle shift, the gentle creak of a floorboard, then nothing. Her hands pause instinctively, peeler held mid-air. She waits, breath held, expecting his footsteps, but they never come.
Rey returns to her task, trying to pretend that she isn't straining to listen. Her cheeks heat slightly, annoyed at herself for being so aware of him, even when he's out of sight. She slices carrots more forcefully than needed, each sharp chop breaking the silence in little rebellions that make her feel braver.
The chicken is cold and slippery, and Rey scrunches her nose at the feeling, hating the texture immediately. She fumbles with it for longer than she would like to admit. Her potato peels come out too thin, the carrots burn in the pan. Her eyes prick with tears as she realises she has to start over.
She swears under her breath, softly, and feels the instant heat of her face flushing as she looks toward the doorway of Mr. Solo’s study.
There's no sound except the faint voice of the woman on the radio saying something about how a well-managed house is a “form of worship.”
Rey wipes her hands on her apron, taking a deep breathe to calm herself before restarting entirely.
Minutes stretch into a slow, uncomfortable quiet, punctuated only by the sound of her own movements and the quiet lull of the radio. She starts with the windowsills, the cloth gliding over the wood with no resistance. Her lips part, brows creasing as she looks at the spotless fabric in her hand. Not a speck of dust, and she wonders if he cleaned them already just to see how well she’d do.
He’s probably the kind of man who tests people like that. She rolls her eyes, annoyed by the mere thought, and somewhat begrudged by the insistence that she clean his house despite him already doing it himself.
Nonetheless, she wipes down the pantry door and straightens the tins inside, aligning the labels so they all face forward, before standing back to admire her work with a newfound sense of pride. Despite her irritation, she thinks to herself that at least Mama would be pleased.
The spice rack is already ordered, but she rearranges it anyway; cinnamon, then cloves, then cumin, just to give her hands something to do. She dusts the baseboards beneath the cabinets, listening to the quiet voice on the radio as she folds the kitchen towels a second time and smooths the tablecloth even though there isn’t a wrinkle in it.
She doesn’t know if he’ll notice.
She doesn’t know if she wants him to notice.
She imagines him sitting at the table with his sleeves rolled up and a plate of her cookies in front of him. Imagines him saying that they were just right. That she’d done something better than other girls. That he’d noticed her.
Behind her, the radio continues to hum softly. The woman’s voice is still going:
“A good housekeeper never waits to be asked. Anticipate your family’s needs. They’ll feel safe when everything is in its proper place.”
Rey exhales through her nose and puts the chicken into the roasting pan, carefully adding herbs the way her mother taught her. She remembers the way he looked at the church bake sale, neat and composed. His dark eyes had moved over her so briefly but sharply, assessing and dismissing in a single glance. Something in her stomach turns, and she shoves the pan into the oven harder than intended.
When all of the cleaning is done and the cooking is finished, it looks alright, she thinks. The chicken is golden, the gravy thick, and the vegetables passable.
She finds two matching plates in the cabinet, folds the napkins as best she can, and sets the table with shaky fingers.
The wooden door to the study creaks behind her, and Rey feels her body stiffen.
He’s respectable, her Mama said. Maybe he could even be nice.
Mr. Solo enters the kitchen just as she’s placing the food down.
He doesn’t say a word. Doesn’t look at the table or at her hands, which are trembling slightly as she straightens a fork. Instead, he walks purposefully across the kitchen to switch off the radio, leaving them both in silence, before pulling out a chair and sitting at the table.
Rey follows, reminding herself not to move to fast or he might think she’s uncomfortable as she perches lightly across from him, remembering to smooth the back of her skirt before she sits.
“I made some extra portions for you and left them on the counter to cool down. Mama told me you might want to put them in the freezer for the week, so you always have a meal. And, uhm, I didn’t know how you liked your vegetables,” she says quickly, stumbling over her words. “I roasted them with salt. Just salt, sir. Mama uses sugar sometimes, but I thought maybe – “
He chews, slowly. Swallows.
“I didn’t burn the chicken. Just the skin… a little. But it’s not dry! At least, I think its not dry, sir-”
“Miss Niima, I am a man who learned to live on ration packs. This is… good.”
She stares at her plate, feeling horrified at herself for being so thoughtless. Though, finding herself unsure if he’s actually complimenting her, or simply acknowledging the food as tolerable.
The silence between them stretches.
Rey continues eating her food, finding her discomfort growing stronger with every scrape of metal against their plates. She doesn’t know how to be in front of him. Doesn’t know him at all, actually.
She counts the seconds between his bites.
It’s so quiet now that she can hear the ticking of the kitchen clock among the sounds of cutlery. Her mind races, trying to think of something appropriate to say, but every thought seems childish and inadequate.
Then, his voice breaks the awkward silence.
“I assume you finished your schoolwork before coming here?”
Rey blinks, startled by the question. “Yes, sir. I did.”
He nods once as he finishes his mouthful before asking, “Mathematics or literature?”
“Literature,” she answers quickly. “We’re reading Wuthering Heights.”
He hums in acknowledgement. “Do you have any hobbies, Miss Niima?”
“Um… I watch Ozzie and Harriet whenever Mama lets me, and I love making friendship bracelets with Rose! She’s my best friend. But… lately Mama has been trying to teach me needlepoint. I’m not very good at it, sir, but Mama says it’s a valuable skill.”
Rey feels her cheeks flushing, immediately embarrassed by her rambling. What if he thinks she talks too much?
Daddy says men don’t like women who talk too much.
He nods, his gaze briefly falling to her hands.
“You’ll bring the needlepoint next time.”
She doesn’t know why that makes her stiffen in her seat a little. But it does.
Who is he to tell her what to bring and what not to bring? The deal was that she was supposed to come and help out around the house. Besides, she’d far rather be spending her time learning how to make bracelets with Rose or going to the mall to watch people together and make up stories about them. What value would needlepoint ever have anyway?
He finishes his food, and Rey finds herself painfully aware of the sound of him setting his utensils down. Orderly and deliberate.
She straightens, suddenly remembering the wax paper bundle beside her.
“I... um… brought cookies. Sugar cookies. I made them this morning, sir,” she says quickly, holding the cookie bundle out like a peace offering.
He takes the package slowly, peeling back the wax paper with careful fingers, and examining the soft, powdered edges of the cookies before selecting one. He tastes it, chewing slowly, and for one painful moment, Rey thinks that she herself is being appraised.
“Too much sugar,” he says finally. It's not cruel, but matter-of-fact.
Rey blinks, taken aback. She cant have messed them up, the instructions were so clear. “But I used the – “
“Box recipe?” he says. “I figured.”
He sets the rest of the cookie down without another bite, the wax paper crinkling quietly. He doesn’t reach for another.
“Mama says they’re wonderful. That they let women have more time to spend on other things-“
“They’re teaching women that shortcuts are acceptable, Miss Niima. That speed matters more than care. What could a mother want more than to provide only the best for her family? A real mother would never have fed her children this when I was young.”
Rey doesn’t speak. Her face burns.
She swallows hard. “But I’m not a mother.”
“No,” he says, his eyes sweeping her form before looking back up at her. “You’re not.”
They eat in silence again. Rey sneaks careful glances, trying to read his expression, but it gives nothing away. She wonders, briefly, what he sees when he looks at her - if he sees someone quiet and capable, or if he sees the girl who makes terrible cookies and doesn't understand how to peel potatoes just right.
After dinner, she quietly asks to stand from to table, to which he nods, allowing Rey to get up and clear the plates without prompting, eager to have her hands busy again. As she reaches to take his empty plate, her fingers brush the edge of his sleeve - a brief accidental touch.
She pulls back quickly.
She feels small. Not angry exactly, but deflated. Like a balloon tied too tight and slowly losing its shape. Her charm bracelet jingles as she reaches to clear the table, and she's painfully aware of the way the sound feels too bright.
She wraps the cookies up, telling herself to throw them in the bin the second she gets home.
Before she had even noticed that he’d gone anywhere, Mr. Solo reappears a moment later by the door, now wearing his shoes and holding his keys.
“I’ll walk you home. It’s getting dark.”
“Oh, you don’t need to-“ she rushes.
“I’m not asking.”
She nods, her gaze turning down to her feet as she follows him into the foyer, picking up the last of her belongings and watching as his broad shoulders pass through the door to the house.
Outside, the air has cooled, the sky bruising with early dusk. The cicadas hum in the hedges and the heat clings in patches along her back. Mr. Solo doesn’t speak, and Rey doesn’t dare to. His steps are longer than hers, but he slows without being asked.
She wonders, briefly, what he’s thinking. If he regrets letting her in. If he even noticed the way she set the table - the extra parsley, the napkin fold her mother made her practice three times. She tells herself she doesn’t care, because she doesn't care. This is just some stupid job her parents are making her do under the guise of it benefitting her, when she knows deep down that it only benefits them.
But she walks straighter, smooths her skirt a little and tucks her hair behind her ear.
When they reach her house, Ben doesn’t follow her to the door, but stops at the gates to the front yard with his hands in his pockets.
“I’ll see you Thursday.”
Rey swallows, voice caught somewhere behind her ribs. “Yes, sir.”
She watches him walk away, tall, silent, steady, until he rounds the corner and disappears.
Rey decides that she hates Mr. Solo.
But her fingers still smell faintly of parsley and lemon, and for some reason, she doesn’t go inside right away.
Notes:
I have no beta so bear with me :)) I'll proofread tomorrow
Chapter 3: Better Next Time
Chapter Text
The mall smells like floor polish and buttered popcorn. Neon lights flicker above the Woolworth’s entrance, and teenagers crowd around the soda fountain, their laughter bouncing off the tiled walls. Somewhere in the distance, someone’s baby is crying.
Rey walks beside Rose, their arms looped loosely together, skirts brushing as they pass a window display full of plastic handbags and pastel gloves.
“I just think,” Rose starts, biting off the end of her red liquorice whip, “that Mr. Solo is probably the most miserable man alive. Like, if Eeyore were real and paid taxes.”
Rey can’t help herself from huffing a small laugh. “You’ve never even spoken to him.”
Rose shrugs. “Don’t have to. Everyone knows. He walks around town like he’s allergic to joy. I heard Mrs. DeMarco tried to bring him a pie after his wife died and he left it on the porch for two days. Can you believe?”
“That’s not true,” Rey says all too quickly. Then, catching herself, she adds, “I mean, maybe he just… didn’t want pie.”
“Exactly!” Rose shrieks triumphantly. “Who doesn’t want pie? It’s un-American. He probably irons his socks.”
They pause outside a cosmetics kiosk, where a cardboard cutout of a smiling woman holds up a bottle of pink nail polish. Rose leans in to whisper, conspiratorial.
“Do you think he even talks to anyone? Like, outside of work? What does he do in that house all alone? I bet he irons dollar bills for fun.”
Rey forces a smile. “He reads, I think.”
“Of course he does.” Rose sighs dramatically. “He probably reads books about lumber production or funeral rites. And yells at the radio. That’s his hobby.”
Rey busies them both by subtly dragging Rose into the nearby soda shop, ordering for them both and paying with the pennies in her purse while telling her friend to get them both a table.
The cherry soda is too sweet, but Rey doesn’t say anything. She just swirls the ice cream melting in the top with her straw, pretending to listen as Rose spins theories about Chrissy Anders and her supposed fall from grace.
Across the tiled aisle, a group of older girls cluster near the magazine stand, all teased hair and cinched waists. One of them has on kitten heels and blouse with tiny rhinestones along the collar. Rey watches her cross one ankle over the other, graceful and deliberate, like she’s practiced being admired.
Rey shifts in her seat, suddenly too aware of her own cotton sock and the bow at the hem of her dress.
She slumps slightly, then straightens again.
Rey taps her soda glass with a fingernail. “Earth to Rey.”
Rey nods. “What?”
“I said, are you really going back there tomorrow?”
Rey nods. “I have to.”
Rose slurps at the last of her soda with a loud gasp and twirls her straw. “I still can’t believe you brought him cookies. I’d have died of embarrassment right there in his kitchen.”
Rey scowls. “It wasn’t embarrassing.”
She refuses to let herself dwell on how embarrassed she really felt. Instead, she merely huffs and looks away. It’s childish, she knows. But Rose is being mean, and she doesn’t want to admit how it actually felt. How awkward it was. How stupid she felt holding out that bundle of cookies like some kind of offering only to have it handed back in pieces. He hadn’t even looked like he cared.
“Did he say thank you?”
Rey picks at the edge of her napkins. “Sort of.”
Rose gives her a look. “Reyline Niima, if a man doesn’t thank you for a baked good, that’s about as low as it gets. I knew I didn’t like him.”
“It wasn’t a real baked good,” Rey mutters, cheeks getting warmer by the second. “It was from a box.”
“And?” Rose leans forward, eyes wide. “You went in there alone? No one else? Just him?”
“It was for the outreach,” Rey rushes. “It’s not like I wanted to.”
“But you did it. And you’re going back.” Rose lifts her brow, leaning back to point at Rey with her straw. “You’re braver than I am. My Mama wouldn’t even let me walk past that house without a chaperone.”
Rey shrugs, but her stomach twists a little. “Mama said it would teach me things.”
“Like what? How to be ignored?”
Rey laughs under her breath, but it’s a weak sound. “He wasn’t mean.”
“He didn’t eat your cookie.”
Rey looks away. She doesn’t know why she’s defending him. He did embarrass her. He made her feel small, like a child pretending to be useful.
She thinks of the kitchen. The waxed floors. The way the plates clinked in the silence. The way he looked at her when she offered the cookie. Not unkind, but cool. Evaluating. Like he was deciding something about her without saying a word.
And yet she finds herself hoping she’ll do better next time. That he’ll nod. That he’ll say her needlepoint is neat, or her vegetables are well-roasted, or that she’s quiet in the right kind of way.
“He was probably full.”
Rose gives her a small, knowing smile, but doesn’t push.
They sit in silence for a moment, the sound of clinking glasses and faint radio music filling the space. The low silence doesn’t last long though, as a loud giggle from outside the store draws both of their attention, and Rey turns the source of the sound when she spots Chrissy Anders across the mall, her hair pulled back into a tight pony that’s curled in a way that makes it look like a small blonde tornado. Poe Dameron and Snap Wexley are at her sides, their hair swept back and a cigarette dangling from the former's mouth. He must have said something hilarious, because Chrissy bursts into fits of giggles, her lashes long and her perfectly manicured hand coming up to cover her mouth.
Rey rolls her eyes. “If I had a dollar for every time Chrissy fake-laughed at a boy’s joke,” she mutters, “I’d buy this whole stupid mall.” Rey snorts, biting back a smile. With Rose, everything feels a little less heavy.
“Did you hear that there’s a new boy at school?” she asks, glancing sideways at Rey. “Finn. He’s from the South District. Chrissy says he’s got nice teeth apparently, so obviously she’s already planning the wedding.”
Rey hums noncommittally. Chrissy always has something to say - always fixing her lipstick in the hallway mirror, always dropping notes into boys; lockers like they were suggestion boxes.
“I heard,” Rose says after a beat, "that Chrissy Anders and Poe Dameron got caught kissing in his car behind the library.”
Rey blinks, instantly forgetting any thought of Mr. Solo and those stupid cookies.
“She says it was innocent,” Rose adds. “But Chrissy also said kissing boys doesn’t count if it’s still light out.”
Rey rolls her eyes, hearing her own mother’s voice in her head if she ever thought Rey had done something remotely similar, God forbid. She pulls a loose thread on her cardigan, pretending she’s not interested. “You think she’ll try for Finn next?”
Rose nods, her eyes wide and scanning the room before she continues. “She’ll try for anything with a heartbeat,” Rose grins. “Mrs. Anders nearly had a fit. Said it was ‘a betrayal of her upbringing.’ Apparently, her Daddy made her pray with a bar of soap in her mouth.”
“Soap?” Rey repeats, stunned.
“Yup. Lemon-scented sin control.” Rose leans in, lowering her voice. “She’ll be lucky If her Mama lets her out of the house before she’s twenty. Girls don’t get second chances. Once someone says something about you, that’s it. Doesn’t matter if it's true.”
Rey feels herself shrink a little in her seat.
“You’re lucky it's church business,” Rose continues. “That’s the only reason nobody’s talking about you going into his house alone.”
Rey isn’t sure if she should be sick or not.
It’s just church stuff. Rose is right. There’s nothing to be scared of, everyone knows why she’s there.
She isn’t sure if that makes her feel better.
Her eyes drift to a nearby store window, where on display is a cookbook wrapped in red ribbon. Perfect Recipes for the Perfect Family. The cover shows a woman in a cinched apron smiling as two children pull at her sleeves.
Rey doesn’t know why her stomach turns at the sight of it.
But she stares anyway.
Rey walks home with the cookbook pressed tight to her chest, the image on the front blurring in the late sun. Rose’s words replay through her head, about the cookie, about the way she’d felt like a fool standing there, and how she was so intent on trying to explain him to someone who wasn’t even really asking. It’s nothing. It doesn’t matter.
But her fingers trace the corner of the cover without thinking, the plastic wrapping squeaking beneath her touch. The woman on the front looks so certain – her smile fixed, her hands full, like she knows exactly what to do and what to be. Rey wonders, not for the first time, if she’s supposed to want something more than this.
Rey stands in front of her bedroom mirror, frowning.
The dress she’s wearing is the same one she wore to church last Sunday – soft yellow with a modest white collar and tiny pearl buttons up the front. Not too bright, not too tight. But now she thinks maybe it’s too plain. Maybe it looks childish. Or maybe it’s fine and she’s just being silly.
The mirror offers no answers. Just her face, flushed from the heat, and her hair already beginning to look untidy.
She reaches for a different belt. A thinner one. Brown instead of white. Then changes her mind and swaps it back, tossing the other one across the room with a frustrated sigh, feeling like a child playing dress-up. She hates it.
“Reyline!” her mother’s voice calls from downstairs. “You’ll be late!”
“I’m coming!” she calls back hastily, snatching the gingham apron from its hook and folding it carefully in her bag alongside her embroidery hoop – Mama’s old needlepoint pattern tucked neatly beneath it. She hasn’t touched it for months, but she spent last night trying to remember how the stitches worked. Just in case he asks.
Not because she wants him to like it.
She just doesn’t want to look stupid.
She checks her bracelet one last time, making sure its not tangled, and tucks a loose curl behind her ear.
Downstairs, her mother is waiting by the front door with the grocery bag. “Extra carrots this time. I figured they’d stretch farther. And don’t forget to put the meat in first. You know how long it takes to roast?”
“Yes, Mama.”
Before she can rush out the door, she grabs the cookbook she bought from the mall and holds it beneath her arm, turning back to her mother and giving her a wide smile that earns a soft kiss on her forehead.
Her father doesn’t say anything, just lifts his chin from behind the newspaper to glance at her as she passes. She pulls the front door shut behind her and exhales once the latch clicks.
The morning is hot again. The kind of heat that glues your dress to the backs of your knees. Rey walks a little slower this time, savoring her time in the sun before she inevitably arrives at his house. Though, she doesn’t let herself linger as much as she usually does. Not because she’s eager, she just doesn’t want to be late. That would be rude, of course. And Mama says girls who are rude won’t get far in life.
She passes Mrs. Ander house again, the scent of fresh-cut grass sharp in the air. A lawnmower whirs somewhere in the next yard over. Someone’s dog barks.
In her purse, the embroidery needle jabs her finger by accident.
She doesn’t flinch.
The walkway looks the same as it did Monday. The hedges clipped square, the porch swept clean. Nothing out of place.
Rey shifts the bag in her arms and glances down at her dress again, smoothing the front even though there’s nothing to fix. The embroidery hoop presses awkwardly against the apples and carrots at the bottom of the grocery sack. She hopes it didn’t snap.
She knocks twice, like before, and waits.
No smile this time. Not that she expected anything.
Mr. Solo opens the door just like he did the last time. Same white shirt, sleeves rolled, hair slightly damp like he’s run a comb through it too quickly. His eyes move over her again, but slower this time.
“You’re on time,” he says.
Rey shrugs, trying to sound casual. “Mama says punctuality is next to godliness.”
“Your ‘Mama’ sure has a lot to say about timing,” he murmurs.
Rey blinks, unable to think of a retort before he steps aside. She brushes past him; chin tilted a little too high.
She tells herself it’s because she’s feeling brave, not because she wants him to think anything in particular.
The radio is on again – low, crackling through a woman’s voice talking about casserole layering techniques and setting a ‘graceful table’. Rey walks into the kitchen, her shoes clicking against the polished floor.
“I brought carrots,” she calls, trying not to sound like she’s performing. She refuses to tell him about the needlepoint. It’s not like she cares what he thinks.
He doesn’t reply before she sees his tall figure disappearing into the study, the door clicking softly as it closes behind him.
For some reason, it annoys her further.
She sets the bag on the counter and starts unpacking. The air feels heavier today, like even the walls are watching. She doesn’t look at the study door; she doesn’t want him to think she cares, regardless of whether he can see her or not. She wouldn’t be surprised if he just knows she looked somehow.
The house is silent again, except for the low hum of the radio drifting through the house. The voice is now talking about table manners and proper posturing while entertaining.
Rey’s not listening. Not really. She’s too focused on the carrots.
She’s already wiped down the counters, refolded the towels twice, and double-checked her hair in the bathroom mirror to make sure her hair isn’t a mess or her brow shiny with sweat.
The sink is clean, the stove spotless, and the pantry looks like the inside of a supermarket’s tinned food aisle before opening in the morning. Everything is where it should be. She’s doing well today. Better.
The carrots are stacked in a little orange pyramid beside her cutting board while she peels slowly, deliberately this time. Not too thin, not too thick. The peels coil into the sink like curls of ribbon, and she brushes one off her sleeve without thinking.
She doesn’t hear him at first. She feels him.
Something shifts behind her, quiet but heavy. Not a noise exactly, but the air changing, and Rey straightens her back without thinking.
She doesn’t turn, but her hands slow unmistakeably for a second. The peeler glides downward, and she clears her throat as if to fill the space.
She can practically feel his eyes looking from the pile of carrots, to the apron tied around her waist, and the brand new cookbook propped open beside the spice rack against the wall in front of her. For a second she feels frozen, waiting suspended in her own anxiety as if preparing to find out whether she’s deemed guilty of a crime or not.
Then his voice comes, low and measured, right behind her. Rey stiffens.
“You’ve peeled too many.”
“Oh. I thought- I thought you said to prepare enough for two meals.”
“I did,” he replies, calm and unwavering, his voice feeling like a brick wall. “That’s enough for four.”
She winces internally and ducks her head. “I guess I lost count.”
There’s no reply at first, just a pause. Heavy. She resists the urge to fidget with the bracelet on her wrist.
“It’s fine,” he says eventually, voice softer. “You were trying to be thorough.”
Rey glances up at that. It’s not praise exactly, but it’s not a correction either. Her chest tightens with something like relief.
“I can save the extras,” she offers quickly. “For later in the week. Maybe with- maybe with stew.”
“That would be wise. You will finish what you started.”
He steps further into the room, the weight of his presence brushing past her like static. She doesn’t dare turn to watch him, but she knows he’s looking. She can feel it. The silence stretches as she wipes her now clammy palms against the hem of her apron and reaches for the paring knife.
“You brought a book.”
She stills, glancing at the cookbook.
“From the mall, sir,” she nods, keeping her head down and picking up a towel to wipe the countertops.
A pause, then: “Hm.”
That’s all he gives her, and she can’t decide if it’s approval or indifference. She stares at the page for a second, rereading the same line about buttering the baking dish without really seeing it. She works in silence for the next while - dicing, sorting, laying things out just so. Her shoulders ache from how stiffly she’s been holding herself, but she doesn’t stop. He stays in the kitchen, leaning against the doorframe just out of her peripheral vision, saying nothing.
She doesn’t care whether he thinks she bought it just for him. She didn’t. Mama says it’s important for a good girl to know how to cook, and that the way to every man’s heart is his stomach.
She hates that it bothers her. That she’s standing here in her good church dress, her skin prickling with heat from the oven and the heavy silence behind her. And that instead of focusing on what she came here to do – cook, clean, be helpful – she’s suddenly very aware of how awkward she feels. Of how her new belt doesn’t quite match right, of how the carrots are now too many, and how the potatoes aren’t peeled yet, and the recipe is open to a page that’s already spattered with gravy.
“You’re very quiet today,” he murmurs after a moment, and Rey turns to look at him.
He stands in the doorframe, the top of his head almost reaching the border and his shoulders wide, arms folded, and sleeves rolled to the elbows, with hair that looks like he’s run his hands through it countless times.
She flushes. “I thought you liked quiet.”
“I like peace,” he says “Silence isn’t the same.”
Rey doesn’t know what to say to that, and instead adds the sliced carrots to a waiting bowl and tries not to glance at him again. She doesn’t understand why she feels so small under his gaze. Her Daddy doesn’t make her feel that way.
Eventually, he leaves, his footsteps fading down the hallway, the door to the study clicking shut.
She exhales at last.
The radio hums softly into the room; a woman’s voice talking about how to set a table with intention, how small gestures matter.
The kitchen smells like garlic and parsley as she dishes the food and Rey fusses over the plates longer than she needs to – two portions, carefully cut and arranged just like the book said. She folded the napkins and wiped the table three times.
By the time she’s finished cooking, setting the table and scrubbing the counters clean, checking the temperature on the roast chicken, she stands back and admires her work with a feeling of warmth in her tummy.
It doesn’t matter whether he notices. Mr. Solo is big, and mean, and old, and stupid.
Still, she smooths her skirt before she sits, softening it over her lap and placing a fresh napkin on top.
Mr. Solo enters without a word, walking across the room to turn off the radio before taking his seat.
She wonders to herself if Mr. Solo misses his wife. Perhaps that's why he has the radio on all the time, she thinks - the soft sound of a woman's voice drifting through the home, talking about being a good homemaker and putting your husband and children first in all things, and suddenly Rey feels terribly rude for thinking poorly of the man. This entire time she has been laughing with Rose about how miserable he is, thinking to herself that Mr. Solo must hate all people and is merely punishing others for being happy, but... Maybe Mr. Solo had wanted children once. He had most likely loved his wife deeply, and all of Rey's mistakes must serve as a constant reminder that nobody will ever be good enough for him.
She watches him from the corner of her eye as he takes his seat and begins to cut into the meat, her insides fluttering with something that feels like hope, that maybe this meal might compare.
He doesn’t make a sound, just lifts a bite to his mouth and chews, slow and deliberate.
Rey swallows.
“I added the parsley near the end,” she says, voice a little too bright. She takes a moment, willing herself to sound less like a little girl. “The book said not to add it too early… or it would turn bitter.”
He nods, clearing his throat once and bringing a pale blue napkin to his lips. “You’re learning quicker than I thought.”
She blinks. “I- thank you.”
“It’s rare,” he adds, pausing to take another bite, “to find a girl who listens.”
She flushes again, looking down at her plate and letting the warmth spread deeper. She doesn’t know if it was meant as praise or just statement, but she tells herself not to care either way. Mama will be proud. But the back of her neck is warm, and she tries not to squirm under the feeling of being... noticed.
Rey lowers her eyes and cuts into her own portion, her fork trembling slightly, and she tells herself its from holding it too tight. She chews slowly, trying to focus on the food. Tries not to notice the way he eats – quiet and composed like always. Like every bite is being considered.
"I..." Rey starts, her voice wavering and riddled with her uncertainty. "I wanted to say that I'm sorry, Sir... about your-"
"About my wife."
Mr. Solo holds his knife and fork still, his head raising to look up at Rey, and all of a sudden she feels like she has crossed a boundary she can't pull back from.
"I-I'm sorry, Sir," she forces out, her voice weak and coming out too fast. "I wasn't trying to be rude, I just knew that-"
"Don't be, Miss. Niima. My wife was a hysterical woman who started getting all sorts of... unbecoming ideas that are not fit for a woman."
Rey's brows furrow, her head tilting slightly as she watches him return to eating as if they had simply discussed the weather.
"But... I thought she fell down the stairs, Sir..." Rey's voice is small and unsure of itself, her knife and fork now resting on the table.
A pause. Mr. Solo stops chewing and looks at Rey.
Then: "She did."
The silence is heavy, weighing on her like something huge and oppressive and she fills it with the sound of her fork scraping the plate, the memory of her mother’s instructions ringing faintly in her ears.
Napkin in your lap. Small bites. Chew softly.
She wants to ask something. Anything. About the food, about the needlework, about whether he’s ever read the recipe book she saw on his bookshelf last week just to move the conversation along. But her mind keeps going blank and she doesn’t want to sound foolish. She still can't shake the conversation about his wife and the nagging feeling in her stomach that he seems far too aloof for a loss that happened only months ago. Her Daddy would be devastated if anything happened to Mama, she thinks. She has no doubt that he'd hide in his room for weeks on end and never leave the house.
Mr. Solo doesn't really leave the house, she guesses. Maybe that's normal for men like him, she thinks to herself - that being distant is his way of coping with it.
They eat in silence for several minutes, the sound of cutlery against china, the soft sound of cicadas outside, the tick of the kitchen clock – it fills the space he doesn’t.
Rey keeps her eyes on her plate, chewing carefully. She’s not sure if she over-salted the potatoes – she keeps meaning to ask Mama what a “pinch” actually means.
She clears the table without needing to be told. Her bracelet jingles once and she stills it with her other hand, glancing over her shoulder and half expecting him to tell her it’s noisy.
It is noisy, she thinks. Women aren’t noisy.
He says nothing.
She dries her hands and adjusts the apron, feeling the weight of the room cling to her skin.
By the time she’s tying the grocery bag closed, the knot behind her ribs has tightened.
Mr. Solo is already at the door, keys in hand.
“Put on your shoes,” he says. “It’s getting dark.”
She does.
The evening air has cooled slightly since earlier, but it’s still humid. The sky is tinged orange and violet, the kind of summer dusk that stretches longer than it should. Rey walks a step behind him at first, then adjusts her pace to match with his, careful not to let her steps fall too loud.
He's not looking at her. He rarely does. His posture remains straight, his expression unreadable and his shoes ticking steadily along the sidewalk. Rey watches the way his hands stay in his pockets even as they turn the corner, like they belong there, like he carries no nerves or discomfort of his own. Rey thinks that it's almost like there's never anything in his body that doesn't already know its place.
“I brought the needlework,” she says suddenly, breaking the silence with her eyes staring straight ahead.
He’s silent for a moment, and Rey wants to bury herself beneath the chrysanthemums in Mrs. Anders' lawn, never to be seen again.
Then, his voice breaks through the silence. “I know.”
She nods, cheeks prickling.
They walk a little farther. A sprinkler clicks in the distance, a screen door slamming somewhere behind them.
He glances down at her, his hands still in his pocket and his face half-lit by the moon. “You’ll bring it next time.”
Her mouth opens like she might say something. She doesn’t. She just nods.
“Yes, sir.”
At the end of the walk, he stops, like always. Never stepping past her gate.
The porch light spills a weak yellow across the steps, and Rey watches him from the corner of her eye, unsure if she should say thank you for walking her home or if there's anything she should apologize for. She can't think of anything.
"Your mother's light is still on," he says simply.
Rey nods, turning to look up at the warm yellow glow from the upstairs window before meeting his eyes. "She waits up, sir. I think she worries about me."
Ben doesn't smile, but simply nods once, his hands still in his pockets.
“I’ll see you soon, Miss. Niima.”
“Yes, sir.”
She turns towards the house, refusing to let herself look back as her shoulders finally relax from the tension she’s been carrying since the moment she last left this very same door.
When she finally dares a glance back over her shoulder, he’s already gone, the sound of his footsteps fading beneath the sound of the cicadas in the trees.
She tells herself again that she hates him. Really, truly hates him. That she ought to.
But the lie sits crooked in her chest, stubborn and slow to settle.
Chapter 4: Seen and Not Heard
Chapter Text
On Sunday Rey stands beside her parents in the third pew from the front, her hands folded neatly in front of her, and her patent shoes pressed together just so. The hymnbook is open in her palms, the edges softened from years of turning and dog-earing the corners, despite her mother's protests every time she’s caught doing it.
Her voice joins the others in quiet harmony - just above a whisper - singing the fourth verse of Nearer My God, to Thee, even though she always finds the phrasing in the third verse prettier.
The church smells like wood polish and wilting roses, and Rey listens to her mothers voice, steady and sweet, like it always is when she sings. Her father's voice is low and quiet, more a mumble than a melody. Rey doesn’t look at either of them.
The heat is stifling and thick with the scent of perfume and powder, and Rey fights the urge to fan herself with her hymn sheet. She holds in a sigh, counting down the seconds in her head until the song ends as she glances at the darkening collars of the family in front of her.
The stained-glass windows sweat droplets in their corners, and her dress clings at the waist despite the fan that clacks slowly overhead like an old metronome. She swallows the warmth and pretends it's nothing; pretends her mouth isn't dry and her spine isn't aching from standing so straight.
She doesn't look around. She hasn’t looked once.
Not since she walked in with her parents and her stomach flipped the second her eyes found him - three pews ahead, left-hand side, alone as usual.
Mr. Solo doesn’t sing.
She watches him barely, just from the corner of her eye. He sits with his head slightly bowed, one hand resting flat on the open hymnal, but unmoving. His expression is unreadable in the half-light - the glass above casting colors that move across the crown of his head like oil on water.
She wonders to herself what he thinks about during hymns, if he thinks about anything at all.
When the verse ends, she closes her book gently and returns it to the holder in front of her, fingers brushing the polished wood. Pastor Hux’s voice begins again, booming and bright and full of hope but Rey only half-listens. Her mind buzzes in a different key, humming low like the fan above.
From here, she can see the back of his neck.
There’s a faint sheen of sweat along his collar and a dark strand of hair curling just slightly out of place. She imagines reaching forward, just for a moment, to brush it back into line.
She grips the side of the pew instead. What has gotten into her? She doesn’t like Mr. Solo. He’s boring and old and he’s not nice at all.
Her cheeks feel hot—more from the shame of noticing than from the heat itself. She shouldn’t be looking at him. Nobody else is. Not really. Some men shake his hand after service, nodding like they mean it. The women offer him tight-lipped smiles if they pass by in the vestibule, but no one lingers. Not even the pastor.
Her heart is doing that thing again, the thing it does when she gets too warm or walks too fast or thinks about the way he looks when he turns his face away before saying her name. Not that he says it often. Only once, maybe twice. Always like it’s an afterthought, like her name is too long for his mouth, or too plain.
She wonders if he even remembers it without effort.
Rey shifts her hymnbook slightly, pretending to study the announcements printed in the back.
Youth Choir Picnic rescheduled due to rain.
Ladies’ Circle Meeting moved to Tuesday at 6.
Company Dinner hosted by Solo Industries…
She frowns.
There’s a small note, tucked into the middle of the page, just below a line about bake sale proceeds: All employees and their families are invited to a formal dinner hosted by Mr. Benjamin Solo and the Solo executive board, to be held at the company hall next Friday evening.
Rey’s eyes stick to the words, even as the pastor dismisses them all with a bow of his head and a closing benediction.
Next Friday. Formal. Families invited.
She swallows. Her hands tighten over the book’s spine until the corners bend.
He doesn’t even look like someone who hosts dinners.
As the pews begin to empty and the congregation shuffles politely toward the doors, people rise like waves, murmuring softly and smoothing skirts, collecting Bibles and children. Her mother gently touches her elbow. “Come along, dear,” she whispers, her voice as calm and cheerful as ever. “And for goodness’ sake, straighten your gloves.”
Rey obeys. She doesn’t speak.
Outside, the heat is worse and the sun is too bright. It bleaches everything - the steps, the hats, the flowers on the portico, until the world looks like it’s been washed in milk and left to dry. The air is syrupy with sunlight, and the concrete outside the steps feels like it’s radiating up through the soles of her shoes. Men wipe their foreheads with folded handkerchiefs, and women hover in small, bright clusters, fanning themselves with service programs and chatting about pie sales and Bible study, exchanging recipes in low, melodic tones.
She sees Rose across the lot in a peach dress, already being dragged by her older sister Paige by the sleeve and mouthing something that makes Rey smile, but she doesn’t wave for fear of her mother swatting her hand and telling her to stop ‘ flapping her hands like a hysterical woman ’.
Her mother is deep in conversation with Mrs. DeMarco about some upcoming fundraiser, and her father is speaking with a pair of deacons at the corner of the lot, nodding slowly and adjusting the cuffs of his shirt. Rey lingers by the pillar, her hands clasped in front of her, trying not to fidget with the hem of her gloves.
“Oh, wasn’t it a lovely service?” Mrs. DeMarco sighs, sipping at a sweating paper cup of iced tea. “So uplifting.”
“I thought the Psalm reading was particularly moving,” Mrs. Powell adds, tapping her parasol against the concrete.
“Yes,” Rey’s mother agrees with a smile. “And the organist played beautifully. So tender.”
Mrs. Anders doesn’t show up, Rey notices, glancing around at the many dresses and hats of the congregation. In fact, she doesn’t think she’s seen Mrs. Anders or her family since the news about Chrissy and Poe got around.
Maybe it’ll teach Chrissy to think more about what she does in public. Rey has already heard her mother gossiping with Mrs. Anders and Mrs. DeMarco about whether Poe will marry Chrissy or if her parents will take her for a trip ‘ out of town ’. Rey doesn't really know what that means, nor did she think to ask, but it doesn't sound good. She’d hate to be married at sixteen, she thinks. What a miserable life. What if her husband doesn’t like Ozzie and Harriet? Or God forbid he hates music and dancing.
Rey doesn’t contribute to her mothers conversation, instead, she stands with her hands tucked beneath her pocketbook strap, watching the line of cars slowly rolling out of the parking lot.
And then she sees him.
Mr. Solo steps down the church steps alone, his jacket folded over one arm, sleeves rolled, collar slightly loosened. He doesn’t hurry, doesn’t nod or smile at anyone. Just walks like he always does—quiet and self-contained, as though the world is something he’s already done once before.
Rey doesn’t mean to watch him.
But she does.
The shift in the air is subtle. Not cold, exactly, but heavier. He steps down from the church entrance slowly, pausing near the steps, and Rey sees her father straighten in his direction. The men exchange nods, a few quiet words.
He doesn’t look at her. Doesn’t look at anyone, really. Just crosses the lot and disappears behind the glare of his car windshield.
Someone beside her says, “I suppose we’re invited, too?”
She turns.
It’s Mrs. DeMarco again, one eyebrow lifted in gentle curiosity as she fans herself. “The dinner,” she clarifies. “The company event. Your husband’s still with Solo’s company, isn’t he?”
Rey’s mother chuckles, waving a hand lightly. “Of course. Mr. Solo mentioned it last week. I imagine everyone in management is expected to attend.”
Mrs. DeMarco leans closer, lowering her voice. “I didn’t even think Mr. Solo believed in social gatherings. I thought he kept to himself.”
“Well,” Rey’s mother replies, her tone modest but firm, “he’s always been perfectly respectful with us. And it’s good for the company image. Besides, I think his father arranged it. A dinner now and then reminds people who’s in charge.”
“I’d sure like a refresher,” Mrs. DeMarco mutters, her lips twitching into something that isn’t quite a smile.
Another woman nearby whispers something about his wife, and someone else murmurs that they heard she was beautiful before the accident, before things went quiet, before he stopped showing up to anything but Sunday service and shareholder meetings.
Rey pretends not to hear.
She keeps her eyes forward and her mouth shut.
But something buzzes in her ears. Not curiosity, nor interest. Just… heat. The kind that creeps down your spine when someone’s spoken about and you aren’t sure why it feels like a secret, even though you didn’t say a word.
She shouldn’t care. It’s just a dinner. It doesn’t involve her.
Still, the back of her neck burns beneath her collar.
She doesn’t say a word all the way home.
Instead, Rey spends the afternoon pretending she isn’t bored.
She helps her mother slice tomatoes for lunch, peels the potatoes too fast and too thick, and earns a mild reprimand for wasting the flesh. She dries the dishes and waters the petunias out front until the sidewalk darkens in little crescent moons beneath her sandals. Her gloves are still folded in her handbag, and her good church dress is sticking to her ribs. She wants to change out of it, but Mama says it’s not polite to change before dinner.
She sits on the porch swing for a while, arms folded, watching ants march in a line along the wooden railing. She counts seventeen before one disappears beneath a peeling white board.
The sun is too bright. The wind won’t move. Her braid is too tight.
She wants to go to the dime store, or walk to Rose’s and read magazines on the floor while her little brothers watch cartoons. She wants to do something stupid—something simple—like chew bubblegum until her jaw aches or pour lemonade and spill half of it. She wants to run around barefoot, to climb a tree and scratch her knee and not be told to sit like a young lady.
Instead, she just swings.
Back and forth, creaking gently, while the sun presses on her shoulders like a too-warm hand.
It’s a boring day.
She tells herself that more than once.
It’s just boring. That’s all. Church is over, and dinner’s not for hours, and the house smells like dust and polish and onions, and she’s just stuck in between. That’s all it is. That’s why her brain keeps playing back the moment from earlier. Not the sermon. Not the Psalm. Not even the announcement. Just the pew. The left-side pew, three rows ahead, where he sat with his head slightly bowed, not singing. Where he didn’t look at her. Not even once.
Not that she wanted him to. Not really. He never does. He never looks at anyone. That’s just how he is. Serious. Private. It would’ve been odd if he had. He wasn’t looking at any of the other women there, not that she noticed, but… he definitely wasn't. He hardly seemed like he wanted to be there at all, actually.
Maybe he just doesn’t believe in God.
Rey’s cheeks almost flush at the notion before she reminds herself that a man who isn't godly wouldn’t attend church in the first place, and Mr. Solo does.
But something about it sticks in her throat like a cherry pit.
She swings harder, her sandals scraping against the porch slats, and tries to think of something else. Mrs. Powell’s lemon pie. The gold sandals Rose wore last week. That stupid blue belt that never matches anything.
It doesn’t work.
The image keeps worming back in.
Mr. Solo, not looking at her. Mr. Solo, walking past the vestibule without even a glance. Mr. Solo, sleeves rolled, jaw shadowed, with that slight curl of hair at the back of his neck—like it doesn’t know how to behave. Like it needs fixing.
She thinks about brushing it back.
And then immediately, violently, pushes the thought away. Her heart thuds like it’s tattling on her and she fears that suddenly her place in heaven is revoked. She sits upright, clearing her throat and adjusting the bow at the collar of her dress like it’s too tight.
What’s wrong with you, she thinks.
She feels sick. Or hot. Or just stupid.
It’s not like she likes him. That would be—well, it would be ridiculous. He’s her father’s boss. He’s thirty-something. Maybe forty. He’s tall, and solemn, and terrifying. And he probably thinks she’s a nuisance. Or worse—he probably doesn’t think about her at all.
Which is good.
She doesn’t want him to. He’s old and stupid.
She presses her palms flat against her skirt and tells herself to stop.
Just stop. Think of something else.
But the image loops behind her eyelids like a slide reel—how calm he looked. How he didn’t flinch or fidget or wipe his brow even when everyone else was melting. How he sat still like stone, like none of it touched him at all.
She doesn't know why that makes her chest feel tight.
She doesn’t know why her legs won’t stop shifting beneath the hem of her skirt.
She doesn’t know why she wants to know what he was thinking, or if he thought about her at all, or if he knew she was behind him in the fifth row, clutching her hymnbook like a floatation device and trying not to sweat through her gloves.
She doesn’t know why it matters.
But it does.
And she hates that.
She swings until the porch groans beneath her and the hem of her dress flutters up her shin. When her mother calls her in to shuck corn, she doesn’t answer right away.
At dinner, her father mentions the company event.
“Formal thing. Friday evening. Solo board’ll be there. It’s in the bulletin.”
Her mother hums as she spoons green beans onto Rey’s plate. “I suppose we’ll need to find something appropriate for Reyline to wear.”
Rey’s fork pauses mid-scoop. “Do I have to go?”
Her mother looks up, brow slightly raised. “Of course you do. It’s important for you to be seen.”
Her father adds, “You’ll sit with us. Behave accordingly. This is an important event and I want you on your best behavior. Maybe you’ll learn something important about the world for once.”
Rey lowers her gaze, ashamed of herself for asking.
“It’s just...” she starts, but trails off.
It’s just boring. It’s just awkward. It’s just a room full of men who won’t look at her and women who’ll talk behind napkins. It’s just another place to sit quietly and pretend her shoes don’t pinch.
But she knows better than to say that aloud.
She pushes a green bean across her plate.
“You’ll represent this family,” her mother says, as if that settles it.
Rey nods.
But the knot in her stomach pulls tighter, and the food goes cold on her tongue.
Chapter Text
The invitation arrives on a Friday, tucked between a flyer for canned peaches and the latest church bulletin. Rey doesn’t notice it at first – not until her mother holds it up to the kitchen light, examining the embossed lettering like it might reveal something more than an invitation. The paper is thick, cream-colored, and stamped with the gold insignia of Solo Industries. Inside: a formal request for the presence of Mr. and Mrs. Ronald Niima and family at the annual company dinner, to be held on Wednesday night at the Solo Company building. Dress code: formal. Refreshments and entertainment provided.
Her mother reads it aloud like scripture, voice lilting with faint excitement. “Well, that’s very gracious of them,” she smiles, tapping the edge of the card thoughtfully against her palm. “Your father must be moving up in the world, darling.”
Rey doesn’t say anything. She’s not sure what’s expected of her, only that there must be a proper way to respond to something like this – and that she likely doesn’t know it. She watches as her mother smooths the envelope and tucks it into the drawer with the bills, her eyes already scanning Rey’s frame in a way that means a shopping trip is imminent.
They go the next morning, early enough to beat the heat. The department store smells like starch and talcum powder, the air heavy with the scent of perfume and new fabric. Rey trails behind her mother past rows of mannequins with painted eyes and cinched waists, their plastic limbs posed in impossible poise. She touches a pale blue skirt on the end of a rack and lets her fingers trace the scalloped hem. It’s too pretty, too delicate. She moves on.
The store is cool and humming with soft light. Ceiling fans spin lazily overhead, stirring the scent of perfume and polished linoleum, while a radio murmurs from somewhere near the cash register, a string quartet barely audible beneath the shuffle of trolleys and the occasional squeak of rubber soles.
Her mother selects four dresses without asking – two pastels, one yellow, and a pale lilac with a lace collar that Rey instantly hates. In the changing room, she undresses slowly, folding her clothes with care before stepping into the first dress. It’s pink and stiff and rides too high on her chest. The next is better, but the fabric itches at her arms and makes her shoulders look square. By the time she tries on the fourth one – a buttery yellow with a ribbon belt and little mother-of-pearl buttons – she’s too tired to argue. Her mother says it brings out her eyes.
“Modest, but fresh,” she declares, adjusting the belt one notch tighter, ignoring the way Rey winces in discomfort, with a smile on her face. “You’ll look just right.”
Rey stares at herself in the mirror. The girl looking back at her doesn’t look grown. Not really. The ribbon sits wrong somehow, and her collarbones feel too sharp beneath the fabric. She smooths the skirt with both hands and tells herself it doesn’t matter. It’s just a dinner. It’s not about her.
“It’s a lovely cut,” her mother comments from behind her. “Turn around so I can see the back.”
Rey hesitates, feeling uncomfortable in her own skin, but still giving her mother the smallest of twirls.
“Oh, Reyline. This one looks perfect on you.”
She turns once, admiring the dress before stepping down and making her way back to the dressing rooms to take it off and make her final decision. Except, on her way, she bumps into something firm, immediately lifting her head to apologize for being so clumsy.
But when she looks up at the person she so rudely walked into, her mouth goes dry.
Mr. Solo is standing in front of her. He’s in a navy jacket this time, sleeves slightly creased at the elbows, hair neater than she’s seen it.
His eyes land on Rey first. Not in surprise, just a flicker of acknowledgement that could almost pass for surprise, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes.
“Oh! Mr. Solo!”
Rey’s spine straightens before she turns.
He’s standing there, a paper bag tucked under one arm, the other hand resting in his coat pocket.
“Mrs. Niima,” he says, finally turning to acknowledge her mother, offering a nod that somehow feels like a bow. “What a fortunate coincidence.”
Her mother beams. “It certainly is! We were just shopping for the dinner tomorrow. Nothing too loud. Girls need to be modest, you know. You must be terribly busy with the arrangements, I imagine.”
“I find it calming, actually. The order of it. Everything in its place.” His gaze drifts downward toward Rey. “And with company like yours, it’s no trouble at all.”
Rey feels something twist in her stomach. She looks down quickly, brushing invisible dust from her dress.
“He turns back to her mother. “I wanted to thank you,” he says warmly, “Rey’s help this past week has been more valuable than I can say. She’s steady. Quick to listen.”
Rey’s mother preens slightly, her chest lifting with pride. “Well, I’ve always said a girl should know how to carry herself properly, And she’s a good listener.”
“She is,” he agrees. He turns to Rey for a moment, looking her over without hesitation. “The yellow suits you.”
The comment lands too fast and Rey blinks. Her heart skips, then races, and she can feel her throat tighten. Her ears ring and she fumbles with the hem of her dress.
Her mother, of course, beams. “Oh, doesn’t she? She gets it from me. I can pull off any color” she says, with a small wave of her hand, brushing imaginary lint from her shoulder.
“Of course.” He says easily, meeting her gaze with something polite, something unreadable. “The resemblance is clear.”
Rey’s mother flushes with pleasure, tucking a curl behind her ear like a debutante. “You’re too kind, Mr. Solo.”
He smiles again, brief but courteous. “I’ll see you both tomorrow night. Send Ronald my regards.”
Her mother nods graciously, the corners of her mouth still curled like she’s heard exactly what she wanted.
With that, he nods once more and moves off towards the entrance of the store and disappears into the mall, his figure tall and unhurried.
The air in the store shifts once he’s gone. Or maybe it’s just Rey. She feels oddly breathless, like the conversation happened too quickly for her to catch up.
Rey doesn’t move for a second. Her fingers have gone cold.
“Well,” her mother lets out a pleased sigh, still smiling. “Isn’t he just lovely? So refined. You can always tell when someone was raised with class.”
Rey nods stiffly, not trusting her voice.
“Always so polite. So respectable. No wonder he’s done so well for himself. Your father says he runs the whole company like clockwork. You’d do well to marry a man like that, darling.”
Rey nods, but she’s not really listening anymore. Her stomach is doing somersaults. It’s just Mr. Solo. He’s not charming. He’s not even warm. Besides, it was just small talk. He was being polite. Of course he was. That’s what grown men do, especially ones like him. Polite. Proper.
She heads back into the dressing room, her stomach fluttering in a way that makes no sense, and when she looks at the dress again, she smiles.
She smooths the skirt once more, just to see how it falls.
When she steps out of the room, dress still clutched to her chest, her mother gives her an expectant look.
“I’ll take this one.”
Her mother smiles, already reaching for her purse. “Good choice. That one looked beautiful on you, sweetheart.”
At the counter, Rey keeps her eyes down as the cashier folds the yellow dress into crips tissue paper. The box feels warm in her hands as they leave the store, like something meant to be treasured.
Only because it’s new. It’s not often that she gets new things. It’s just, new.
The Niima family arrives just before sunset, when the sky is stained orange and the company building glows warm and gold against the falling evening. Two American flags frame the entryway of the building, and a brass quartet plays just beneath the awning, their instruments glinting under the warm glow of electric bulbs strung between the beams. People are already gathering near the steps, men in ties and slacks, women in cinched waists and floral brooches, their laughter mixing with the strains of trumpet and clarinet.
Rey shifts in the back seat, careful not to wrinkle the yellow dress spread across her lap. It still smells faintly like new fabric and department store perfume. Her mother insisted she iron it again that afternoon — “just to be sure” — and now her reflection stares back at her in the smudged window glass, the crisp collar lying neatly against her collarbones, the sleeves smoothed perfectly over her shoulders.
“You’ll be careful not to fidget,” her father says as they climb out of the car. “And don’t go fussing with your skirt. I don’t want to see so much as a crease.”
“Yes, Daddy,” Rey murmurs, smoothing the front instinctively.
Inside, the hall has been transformed. Long white tablecloths cover rows of wooden tables, and centerpieces of yellow carnations and baby’s breath line the center, dotted with glittering sugar bowls and cream jugs. Waiters weave between the guests with pitchers of iced tea and champagne, and somewhere toward the front, a banner reads in cursive script: Solo Foundry – Annual Employee Appreciation Dinner.
Rey’s yellow dress catches the shimmering light glowing from the chandelier above her, the fabric soft and swinging around her knees with each careful step. Her mother has fussed over her hair, pulling it back with a satin ribbon, and her father had insisted she wear the cream cardigan “for modesty,” though it clashed ever so slightly with the yellow. She hadn’t argued. She knew better than that.
Her father's tie is knotted twice, smoothed flat, and his shirt tucked in so tightly that his belt strains at the last notch. He walks with stiff shoulders and a too-wide smile, the kind that makes Rey’s stomach tighten. His voice has been firm all afternoon, sharper than usual—reminding her to mind her manners, to smile without talking too much, and to let him do the talking if Mr. Solo speaks first.
He repeats it now as they ascend the front steps of the building: “You don’t speak unless spoken to. And when you are, you keep it short. You hear me?”
“Yes, Daddy,” Rey says, her voice small.
Her mother is beaming, her powder blue gloves clasped tightly in one hand and her lipstick reapplied in the car just moments before. “He’s such a generous man,” she whispers to Rey, though it’s loud enough for her husband to hear. “Your father says he’s one of the finest businessmen he’s ever worked for. A real gentleman.”
Her father grunts but doesn’t disagree.
The foyer is filled with the low hum of polite laughter and the clink of cocktail glasses. Waiters in white jackets pass through with trays of deviled eggs and shrimp cocktails, and the whole building smells faintly of lemon polish. The walls are wood-paneled, the chandeliers low and warm, casting everything in a rich amber light that makes Rey’s dress look brighter than she remembers. Too bright, maybe - a yellow daffodil in a field of black and white. She pulls at the hem, just slightly.
Rey stands awkwardly between her parents as her father scans the room for familiar faces. Already, some of the older men are gathered in groups near the punch bowl, their voices booming as they talk shop. Her mother makes a quiet noise of approval as she spots the hors d’oeuvres — neat little rows of devilled eggs, meatballs on toothpicks, and delicate cucumber sandwiches — and leans in to adjust Rey’s collar one last time.
“There,” she says. “You’ll look proper in the photos now.”
Rey doesn’t know what photos she means, but she nods anyway, eyes scanning the room. The space is filling quickly. Everywhere she looks, there are grown-ups smiling too widely, or whispering behind gloved hands, or nudging each other toward some new arrival. She’s not sure where she’s supposed to stand.
They’re barely five steps into the room when her father spots him.
“Mr. Solo,” he calls, a hand lifting in greeting, his voice raised just enough to sound casual but still earnest. There’s a strain behind it, the eager kind Rey recognizes from when he talks to the church deacon.
Ben Solo turns from a group of women laughing all too loudly at something he said with that same unreadable expression he always wears; composed and far too charming. His suit is dark charcoal, crisply pressed, with a narrow black tie and not a single hair out of place. Not even the usual one at the back… He could’ve stepped straight out of a magazine ad for cologne or cufflinks.
He’s clean-shaven tonight, and the harsh lighting of the chandelier softens his sharp features into something that makes Rey’s stomach twist. She notices the precise angle of his jaw, the small twitch of muscle beneath his cheek as he chews — even though she knows she shouldn’t be watching that closely. His lips, so rarely parted in anything other than restrained politeness, are set in a line that could pass for either boredom or deep thought.
There’s a pause before he smiles, barely, and walks toward them.
“Mr. Niima,” he says, voice low and steady. “I’m glad you could make it.”
“We wouldn’t miss it,” her father replies too quickly. “It’s an honor to be invited. A real honor. You’ve built something to be proud of here. My family’s grateful to be part of it.”
They shake hands, firm and masculine, and Rey watches the exchange like she’s not really part of it, standing just behind her mother’s shoulder. Ben’s eyes flick briefly to her, but if there’s recognition, he doesn’t show it. Not even a glance at the dress.
Instead, he turns to her mother and gives a soft smile. “And Mrs. Niima, you look lovely this evening. That brooch is very fine.”
Her mother tuts modestly, but her cheeks flush, hand lifting automatically to touch the clasp at her collar. “Why, thank you, Mr. Solo. You’re very kind.”
“It’s long overdue, Ronald is an honest and capable worker,” he replies, his voice smooth as cream. “You’ve both also raised a young lady who’s proven remarkably capable as well. You should be proud.”
Rey feels something twist in her stomach. Her mother beams.
“She’s a good girl,” her mother preens. “Knows how to keep her head down and get on with things. We’re very grateful for the opportunity she’s had, helping with your community work.”
Ben inclines his head. “The pleasure’s all mine.”
He says it with such sincerity that even Rey’s father seems momentarily disarmed. “We’re just glad she’s pulling her weight. You hear that some of the young girls in this town don’t even know how to sew a hem,” he adds, patting Rey’s shoulder; firm, not unkind, but possessive in that way he always is when trying to show off.
Ben’s gaze returns to him easily. “And I’ve heard nothing but praise about your department, Mr. Niima. Your numbers have been solid all quarter.”
Rey’s father straightens visibly, puffing up like a bird on a wire. “We aim to keep it that way.”
“I'm sure you will.” Ben’s smile doesn’t falter, but he makes no move to linger. “Please excuse me. There are a few other guests I need to greet. I’ll see you inside.”
He nods once, politely, then disappears back into the stream of guests, swallowed by laughter and clinking glasses.
Rey stands still a moment longer, her hands tangled in the strap of her handbag. Her mother is still smiling, still murmuring about how courteous he is, how rare it is these days to meet a gentleman with actual manners. Her father is adjusting his jacket again, muttering something about sitting near the front.
But Rey isn’t listening.
He’d hardly even looked at her. She could’ve been the jacket resting on her Mama’s shoulder for all the interest he paid.
She’s not sure if it’s disappointment or something else entirely that has her cheeks warm and her chest tight. But she presses her lips together and follows her parents inside.
The hall is full of music and laughter, and Rey is just one girl in a yellow dress.
Rey trails her parents deeper into the reception room, her shoes barely making a sound on the polished floor. Her cheeks still burn. Not from embarrassment, exactly. Not even from the praise he gave her mother—which Mama had lapped up like cream—but something else. Something colder and more confusing.
She tells herself it doesn’t matter. She tells herself she should be proud. That she looked poised. That she didn’t fidget. That he noticed her family. Complimented Mama. Spoke highly of Papa’s department.
And yet.
He hadn’t said anything about her dress. Hadn’t looked at her like he had the women near the punch table. The ones in rhinestones and gloves with nails painted coral and cherry red. One of them had laughed with her hand pressed lightly to his sleeve. Another had said something close to his ear that made him smile. Not a full smile, but more than he’d given Rey. It wasn’t fair.
She tries not to look again, but she does. Over her shoulder, through the shifting tide of guests. He’s still near the entrance, speaking to a woman with dark hair and a gold clutch. She’s laughing at something he said. Too much. Her fingers trail lightly along his forearm.
Rey’s stomach turns.
It’s not jealousy. It’s not. He’s old, and tall, and strange, and serious. And besides, he probably just likes women like that. Grown-up ones. Ones who wear heels without tripping and put on lipstick without smudging.
Still, she can’t help herself. She watches him glance around the room again—his gaze sweeping, unreadable—and for one second, she swears it lands on her.
But there’s no change. No flicker. No pause. Just a smooth, disinterested pass before he returns to whatever story he’s telling.
Rey turns back, face hot.
She hates this place. Hates the lights and the shiny floor and the music that makes it too easy for people to laugh overtop of. She hates her dress, too. It’s too bright. She looks like a lemon tart.
Her mother doesn’t notice. She’s too busy waving to Mrs. Anders and adjusting her cardigan with one hand while smoothing Rey’s shoulder with the other. “You look sweet,” she says in a hushed voice. “Just don’t slouch.”
Rey slouches more, just out of spite.
“Reyline,” her father snaps quietly, the warning sharp.
She straightens.
When they’re finally ushered toward the dining room, Rey walks with her arms tucked in tightly at her sides. The place cards glint softly in the golden light, little white rectangles lined up like name tags at a school function.
She doesn’t even look up at first, not until her mother stops, startled. “Oh,” she says, her voice a little high. “Rey, you’re here.”
The banquet hall is warmer than it should be. The overhead lights glint off every polished fork and glass rim, casting the room in a syrupy golden haze. Waiters in white shirts bustle between tables with practiced ease, placing folded napkins and pouring water into tall goblets that sweat in the heat. There’s too much laughter, too many men with booming voices and women leaning in too far, their perfume thick in the air like sugared violets.
Rey follows behind her parents, eyes scanning for their assigned table. Her father strides ahead confidently, shoulders squared, his gaze sweeping the room with proprietary pride. He wants to be seen. Wants Mr. Solo to see him. Rey can feel it in the way he walks.
Their name cards are already set—Niima, in looping script—ivory with tiny embroidery along the border. Her mother clucks in approval and pulls out a chair.
Rey glances at the card beside hers. Then she really sees it.
Solo.
She freezes.
Her eyes dart instinctively toward the head of the table, where the other senior managers are already beginning to gather—laughing, shaking hands, passing folded napkins to their wives. But the place beside hers isn’t a mistake. There’s no second “Solo” waiting in a suit. There’s just the one, and apparently, he’s not where he usually sits.
Her father lets out a low, approving sound, a smile tugging at the edge of his mouth as he notices. “Looks like they’ve taken a liking to us,” he mutters, just loud enough to be heard. “Mr. Solo’s a clever man.”
Rey doesn’t know what to do with that. She hovers beside her chair, eyes flicking back to the name card as if it might change while she isn’t looking.
It doesn’t.
Ben isn’t seated yet. The chair beside her is empty, the napkin still neatly folded and untouched. Rey doesn’t dare look around for him. Instead, she smooths her skirt and lowers herself into her seat, back straight, fingers knotted in her lap.
This is fine. It’s fine.
But the heat is rising in her face again, and her chest feels tight, and she tells herself it’s only the humidity, only the lights, only the nerves of being here at all.
Rey’s stomach does something traitorous and childish—something swooping and sickly and embarrassing.
She sits.
And waits.
The tablecloth is thick white linen, stiff with starch and creased into perfect, symmetrical lines. The silverware gleams beneath the soft glow of the chandeliers, and delicate plates with blue painted rims sit untouched as waiters weave between guests, pouring champagne and refilling glasses. Rey smooths her skirt beneath the table, her ankle grazing the thick leg of her chair, and pretends not to notice the way her place card sits directly beside his.
Still, when she hears his voice a moment later—low and familiar, murmuring something to one of the other guests—she doesn’t look up.
She doesn’t want to give him the satisfaction. Whatever satisfaction it would give him, she doesn’t know. But she imagines it would, and he doesn't deserve it.
He takes his seat beside her without a word.
She stiffens.
He doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t look at her. Just reaches for his water glass and takes a measured sip, as if this is just another company event and she’s just another well-mannered girl in a chair.
And maybe she is.
Maybe he’s forgotten she’s even here.
She wishes she could the same fortune, except all she can think about is the heat radiating from the man beside her like a coal tucked under her ribs, quiet but unmistakable. He’s not said a word to her since pulling out his chair with a nod of acknowledgment so faint she might have imagined it. He’d simply taken his seat, lifted his glass, and greeted the older gentleman across from them with that smooth, polished voice that never quite sounded warm.
She shouldn't care. He’s just a man. Her father’s boss. Old. Too old to be any kind of interest, too cold to be any kind of comfort. And yet her fingers worry at the hem of her cardigan under the table, twisting the wool between thumb and forefinger as the conversation flows around them. Her parents are further down the table, sitting stiffly, smiling too widely at the other guests. Her mother’s laugh is too high. Her father keeps angling his shoulders toward the center, as though proximity alone might impress the higher-ups.
Rey doesn’t smile. Not even when the woman across the table compliments her ribbon. She gives polite nods, quiet acknowledgments, but her mood coils tighter and tighter around her ribs.
She shouldn’t have worn yellow. It’s too bright. Too obvious. It’s like she tried too hard.
And he hasn’t looked at her once.
Not really. Not the way he looked at those women near the entrance — older, polished, laughing into their cocktails. They’d touched his arm and leaned just a little too close, and he hadn’t stopped them. He had smiled, even. Not much, but enough to make Rey's stomach turn. None of the boys here had noticed her like that, and especially not men like Mr. Solo.
Now, the clinking of cutlery and the murmur of conversation fill the space between them like static. The roast is good. The potatoes are soft, creamy with just the right amount of salt. Rey takes a bite and then another, her appetite dulled but her fork still moving as if she were on autopilot. If she stops eating, her mother will notice. If she picks at her food, her father will frown.
She doesn’t look at him. Not once.
But she knows he’s there. Knows his elbow is barely a hand’s width from hers. That when he takes a sip from his water glass, he uses his left hand instead of his right — not because it’s proper, but because it puts the weight of his forearm between them like a barrier. Or maybe a test.
And somehow, that’s worse than if he’d frowned at her or told her she was too loud, or that her dress was too bright. At least then she’d know what she’d done wrong. At least then she wouldn’t feel like she was fading into the white tablecloth beside him.
She keeps her shoulders straight, her cardigan smoothed down, her napkin tucked neatly in her lap. She hasn’t fidgeted once. But still — nothing.
He is completely and utterly rude, she thinks to herself. To sit down at a dinner and not even greet your neighbor? Her fists clench around her cutlery and heat creeps up the back of her neck. She cleans his house for crying out loud, and he hasn't even had the decency to say hello.
With a sudden rush of bravery that she fears will disappear if she hesitates, she clears her throat. “Do you always sit through dinners without talking?”
Her voice is small, sharper than she meant it to be and she hopes desperately that he doesn't notice the way it wavers at the end. She’s not looking at him when she says it, but instead watching the candlelight flicker inside the glass of her water.
Beside her, Ben doesn’t react at first. He sets his fork down with deliberate care, dabs at the corner of his mouth with the cloth napkin, and only then turns his head just enough for her to see the edge of his profile.
He glances at her, slow and unreadable, then returns to his plate. “When there’s nothing worth saying.”
That’s all. No softness in it. No cruelty, either — just a plain, clean line delivered like he’s stating a fact.
Rey blinks, her cheeks flushing hot. “Oh.”
She stabs a green bean too hard and it slips off her fork. She pretends not to notice.
Silence stretches again, taut as thread between them. She’s already thinking of things she should’ve said instead — smarter things, cooler things, anything that wouldn’t make her sound like a brat with her feelings hurt.
Then, without looking at her, Ben speaks.
“You’ve been pouting since you walked in.”
She jerks her head toward him, wide-eyed. “I have not!”
His tone doesn’t change, and neither does his expression. “You didn’t get what you wanted.”
Rey flushes instantly, ears hot. “That’s not— I don’t even know what you mean —” She stops herself. Her voice rose too loud. She knows better.
He doesn’t smile. He never does when she wants him to. He tilts his head, just a fraction. It’s barely a movement, but it makes her feel like she’s under glass. “Of course you do.”
She opens her mouth to respond, then closes it again. She doesn’t understand how he always manages to sound so certain. Like everything she feels is already catalogued and filed away in that head of his before she’s even made sense of it herself. It lights a flame inside her that has her rearing back at him.
She glares down at her plate, face burning. “I don’t even like you,” she mutters, quiet enough for her parents to not hear, but just loud enough that he does.
He huffs softly — not a laugh, exactly. More like amusement passing through his nose. He leans back in his chair, the wood creaking faintly beneath his weight.
“I know.”
That’s worse. Somehow that’s worse.
She folds her hands tightly in her lap and twists her napkin. She wishes she could disappear beneath the tablecloth. Or throw her pudding at him. Either would feel better than sitting here and blushing like some silly little girl who got ignored.
“I’m not pouting,” she says, but even to her own ears, it sounds weak. Petulant.
“You are,” he replies. “But it’s not unbecoming.”
That makes her blink. It isn’t a compliment exactly — not the way other men would say it — but somehow it lands heavier than anything else tonight. It makes her feel… watched. Assessed. And for the first time since she sat down, she feels less invisible.
“You didn’t even notice my dress,” she mumbles. It’s out before she can stop it and suddenly she feels like a child confessing to something shameful.
His brows lift slightly, not in surprise, but in acknowledgment. He turns his head toward her, face angled so that the light catches on the sharp line of his cheekbone. “I noticed.”
Her breath sticks. “Then why didn’t you say anything?”
“Because it’s not my job to tell you how you look.”
She stares at him, blinking. “Well… maybe I wanted to hear it.”
He lifts his glass. “And now you’ve said so.”
She nearly growls. Her foot bumps the leg of the table and the silverware rattles. She fixes it with trembling fingers, muttering, “You’re impossible.”
Ben’s hand stills around his glass. He looks at her fully now, his expression quiet, and not unkind. “No. I’m teaching you something.”
Her heart skips. “Teaching me what?”
He leans just slightly closer, but his voice stays calm. “Disappointment.”
Rey’s eyes widen. “That’s— That’s mean.”
“Is it?”
She opens her mouth, but nothing comes out. The silence between them buzzes.
He tilts his head again, studying her with the kind of patience that makes her skin feel too tight. “You want me to look at you. You want me to praise you. You just don’t want to admit it.”
“I don’t!”
“You do,” he says, voice low. “And you’re sulking because I didn’t.”
She flushes down to her collar. Her hands twist in her lap. Her mouth opens, but the protest dies before it reaches her tongue. She doesn’t know what she’s feeling. She doesn’t like him. She shouldn’t like him. But she wanted him to look.
She doesn’t understand why it bothers her. Why her stomach twisted when he was smiling at those women earlier. Why it matters that he hadn’t looked at her all evening, even though it shouldn’t. She doesn’t even like him.
She scowls into her pudding.
He notices. Of course he does.
“Would it have changed your evening,” he asks slowly, “if I’d told you the dress suited you?”
Rey stares. He still hasn’t looked at her.
“…Maybe,” she mumbles.
“Hm.”
That’s all he says. No confirmation. No flattery. Just a soft hum, like a box closing around her answer. It stings more than it should.
She shifts in her seat, annoyed all over again — at him, at herself, at the way her hands are clammy and her tongue thick. She doesn’t even know what she wants him to say. She just doesn’t want to feel like she’s come all this way, all this effort, just to be invisible again.
“You’re sulking again,” he says, a smirk at the corner of his mouth as he takes a sip from his glass. Not cruelly. Almost fond.
She doesn’t deny it this time. She just stares at her hands, her cheeks flushed, her lip caught between her teeth.
“I didn’t mean to.”
“I know,” he says. “But you’re not very good at hiding it.”
Rey dares a glance at him. He’s still looking ahead, but his mouth is curved—just faintly—at the corner, like he’s won something. She frowns, but not because she’s angry. More because she’s confused. Because he makes her feel like she’s failed a test she didn’t know she was taking.
“At hiding what?”
His eyes meet hers at last. Calm. Intent.
“That you want to be good," he says, a pause. Then lower, "And you want me to see it.”
That breaks her. She turns her face away quickly, chewing the inside of her cheek so hard it stings. She doesn’t cry. She won’t. She just sits very still and tells herself she’s fine. It’s just a company dinner.
The words feel like a hand around her wrist — not rough, but certain. She doesn’t move. She just lets them settle over her, a flush rising from her collar to her ears.
She shifts her gaze briefly, instinctively, checking the guests nearby. No one seems to be listening. Her mother is laughing three seats down. Her father is talking about stocks. The woman across the table is buttering a roll.
She tries to breathe. She shouldn't feel like this — shouldn’t care what he says, what he sees. He's just a man. Just Mr. Solo. But her chest still buzzes with the aftershock of his words, and she can't help but glance at his hands again, the neat, quiet way he holds his knife. The way his fingers barely move when he folds his napkin. It irritates her. All of him irritates her.
Especially his voice. Too smooth. Too calm. Like everything he says has already been considered, already prepared.
He turns back to his plate, as if the matter’s been settled, and begins buttering a roll with quiet precision.
He doesn’t speak again, but she feels the absence of his voice like a tug. Every second he doesn’t speak, she feels more foolish for wanting him to.
When she sneaks a glance sideways, she finds him still eating, his movements neat, deliberate. She tries to sit straighter. Tucks her feet beneath her. Wonders if he’s even looking anymore.
Rey sits beside him, stunned and breathless and she knows it’s wrong, knows its foolish. But when his sleeve brushes hers again, she doesn’t pull away.
Notes:
I hope you like where this is going! Comments mean a lot to me! <3
Chapter 6: In the Eyes of Others
Notes:
So! Fair warning here! I have done quite a bit of editing to the previous chapters. Nothing heavy or world changing! But I just didn't feel satisfied with the side characters and world building so far, so it's definitely worth going back and taking a look at the new scenes that have been added in the chapters before this one.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
The air outside the church smells like overripe honeysuckle and yesterday’s grass clippings. It’s not quite nine o’clock and already the heat is curling beneath the collar of Rey’s dress, sticky at the back of her knees where the hem clings. She fans herself with the paper fan her mother gave her for her last birthday and looks around the churchyard for Rose.
The church bell hasn’t rung yet, but families are already beginning to trickle up the front steps – fathers in pressed shirts and thin, worn ties while their wives adjust their hats, straightening their daughters’ ribbons. Small children run in loose loops across the lawn until they’re yanked back into like by gloved hands and soft scoldings while their fathers pay no mind.
Rey stands just off to the side, shifting from foot to foot in her Mary Janes and fidgeting with the strap of her purse. Her mother is beside her, politely murmuring something about potluck signups to Mrs. DeMarco, while her father scans the crowd with the square-jawed, possessive ease of someone who feels entitled to be recognized. Rey barely listens.
She’s too hot, too aware of the way the fabric of her blue cotton dress clings under her arms and the way her braid is already starting to loosen against her damp neck. And beneath it all – beneath the familiar thrum of Sunday small talk and the way the cicadas rasp in the trees – she’s aware of something else.
Or rather, someone else.
Mr. Solo is standing near the chapel door, flanked by Pastor Hux and a man in an oversized blazer Rey’s never seen before. His profile is sharp in the morning light, hair neatly combed, and glasses glinting gold when he tilts his head. He’s dressed the same as always – white shirt, dark slacks, his black hair pushed back and the sleeves of his button-down rolled once at the elbow with precise indifference – but even among the crowd, he’s the only one not fanning himself or tugging at his collar. His posture is as rigid as the steeple, his expression unreadable as usual.
Rey’s eyes slide toward him once, too fast. And then again, slower.
He’s not speaking, she notices. Not laughing or shaking hands like the other men in the yard. He’s just listening to whatever Pastor Hux is saying, his gaze resting somewhere in the distance. But after a moment, something shifts. Maybe it’s the way his head turns half an inch, or maybe it’s nothing at all.
But Rey could swear that he looks at her. Only for a second. Not long enough to read it, but long enough for her stomach to tighten.
She turns away quickly, praying to anyone that can hear that he didn’t notice her looking.
“Hi” comes a voice to her right.
Her eyes drift back to the chapel steps.
That’s when she hears it again.
“Uh, hi.”
The voice is closer this time, and when she turns, the boy is already standing there, his shoulders slightly hunched like he’s unsure whether he’s interrupting something.
“I’m Finn,” he says, offering a quick, sheepish smile. “I think we’re in the same English class. I’m new in town…”
Rey blinks, caught off guard. She notices the way his collar is tucked unevenly beneath his sweater best, the little dent in his tie knot like someone tugged it once and gave up. He looks kind, she thinks. Warm. His smile is wide and his eyes a deep brown, crinkling at the edges when he grins.
“I sit two rows behind you,” he adds quickly, like he’s worried she didn’t hear or confused about why he’s talking to her. “You always write your essays real neat in cursive and stuff.”
Rey doesn’t know what to say to that. There’s somebody who knows what her writing looks like. Somebody that even bothered to look and know who it belonged to.
“I mean—” he rubs the back of his neck, “—it’s nice handwriting. Most girls just use that loopy bubble stuff. Yours is sort of… serious. In a good way.”
“Oh.”
“Sorry,” he chuckles, ducking his head a little, and Rey suddenly registers the confused tone of her voice. “That sounded weirder out loud.”
Rey smiles, the corners of her mouth twitching slightly and her shoulders feeling tight. “Its fine. I just… didn’t really know anyone noticed.”
“I notice,” he says, his voice quieter this time. “Not in a weird way, obviously,” he chuckles sheepishly. “You always look like you’re thinking hard about something. Even when everyone else is bored out of their minds. Last week, you were frowning during the story about the girl who burns the letters. I liked that.”
“I didn’t like the ending.”
“Me either,” Finn grins. “She forgave him way too easy.”
Rey looks up at that. Surprised.
He shrugs again, more relaxed now. “I mean… just because someone says they’re sorry doesn’t mean they are, right? People say things all the time.”
Her lips part slightly, but she doesn’t answer right away.
He must take that as encouragement, because he adds, “I think it’s cool, though. That you frown during stories. I get bored too sometimes. But it’s nice seeing someone else who looks like they’re waiting for something better.”
Rey gives the tiniest smile at that. “I don’t know. I got marked down last week for spelling ‘reverberated’ wrong.”
“You spelled it?” he grins, eyes wide. “Man, I just used the word ‘echoed’ and hoped for the best.”
Rey laughs — a real one, soft and surprised. She glances up at him properly this time, noticing the dimple that appears when he smiles fully. His eyes are warm, kind. Nothing sharp about him. Rey’s not used to this. Not really. Not boys saying things like that — without teasing, without watching her out of the corner of their eyes like she’s some puzzle they’re trying to undo.
Finn’s not like that.
Out of the corner of her eye, movement draws her attention — Rose, two steps behind the main path to the church doors, is watching this unfold with an expression of barely-contained glee. She’s biting her lip to keep from laughing and gives Rey a massive thumbs-up from behind a hedge of neatly trimmed lilacs. When Rey narrows her eyes at her, Rose grins wider and makes a gesture like she’s throwing confetti in the air.
Rey glares half-heartedly and turns back to Finn before she’s tempted to stick out her tongue.
"You look nice. I mean, the dress… the ribbon, it’s—it’s pretty.”
She stiffens, her hand grazing the pleated edge of her skirt.
“Thanks,” she murmurs, not quite meeting his eyes. “My Mama picked it.”
He smiles again, softer this time. “She’s got good taste. But I think it’s you making it look good, not the other way around.”
The compliment lands awkwardly, like a pebble tossed too gently. Rey isn’t used to boys talking like that. Not to her. Not ones her own age. She casts a glance sideways, unsure what to say.
Her eyes drift, without meaning to, toward the top of the chapel steps.
Mr. Solo is there, speaking in quiet tones with the pastor, one resting on the railing as he leans slightly into conversation.
He’s nodding as the pastor talks. Still. Composed. Like always.
But his eyes are no longer on the pastor.
They’re on her.
He’s still listening — not impolite, not inattentive. But his gaze has moved past the conversation, past the entryway crowd. It lingers.
He’s watching her. Watching them.
Rey’s breath catches.
Something tightens in her chest. She turns back quickly to Finn, heat prickling her ears. A flicker of something travels the length of Rey’s spine. That subtle pressure again, like the weight of being watched from across a silent room. And suddenly, like being jolted by the memory of a hot stove, she remembers the dinner. The weight of his voice and the quiet certainty when he’d leaned in and said, You want me to look at you. You want me to praise you. You just don’t want to admit it.
Her breath hitches. She hadn’t forgotten. Not for a second. She’d thought about it since Wednesday, in fact.
But standing here, in the warm summer air, with Finn smiling and Mr. Solo watching, something restless curls up inside her chest — not quite rebellion, not quite confidence, but some messy, tangled thing that smells faintly of pride and shame and a girl’s desperate desire to be seen.
Finn is still talking, voice sweet and earnest.
“Anyway,” he adds, suddenly aware of himself again. “Just thought I’d say hi. And maybe — I dunno — if you don’t already sit with someone in there…” He nods toward the church. “I thought maybe you’d sit with me?”
His voice softens at the end, just a little. Like he’s offering something fragile.
Rey’s mouth opens, but nothing comes out at first.
It’s a perfectly nice offer. A sweet one. He’s not strange, or cold, or the kind of boy who talks over her. And he noticed her notes — no one notices things like that. Not unless they’re looking close.
Rey hesitates — not because she doesn’t want to say yes, but because she’s suddenly aware of why she wants to say yes.
It’s not only that Finn is kind. It’s that Finn is watching her with hope, and Mr. Solo is watching her with nothing. No expression. No change.
She tilts her chin up, ever so slightly.
Behind Finn, she catches Rose’s face peeking around the edge of a hydrangea bush. Her friend is mouthing something ridiculous—Say yes!—while throwing an exaggerated thumbs-up into the air. Rey rolls her eyes, lips twitching, cheeks still burning.
She glances back toward the steps. Mr. Solo hasn’t turned away.
He’s still watching.
And that’s what makes her do it.
She turns back to Finn, summoning a smile she doesn’t fully understand, and says, clear as anything:
“Sure. I’d like that.”
Finn beams. His relief is so obvious it makes her feel shy and bold all at once.
“Yeah?” he says, already straightening. “Great! I’ll save you a seat—third pew, right side. Best view of the choir.”
Rey nods, eyes flicking once more toward the stone steps as he hurries up to grab the bulletins.
Mr. Solo hasn’t looked away.
He doesn’t speak. Doesn’t frown. Doesn’t offer so much as a lift of the brow. But the crease between his eyes is deeper now. Barely. Just enough for Rey to notice.
She smooths the front of her dress, squares her shoulders, and follows Finn into the church with her heart fluttering like it might lift her clean off the ground.
The inside of the church is dim and cool, with sunlight filtering through colored panes high above the altar, casting soft blue and rose patterns along the pews. The organ wheezes gently as the final hymn before the sermon is played, and the air smells faintly of old wood, dust, and talcum powder. Every seat is nearly full — ladies in hats with netted veils, men straight-backed in their Sunday best, little boys fidgeting beneath the weight of their polished shoes.
By the time the ushers begin directing families to their pews, Finn is still beside her, holding his bulletin with both hands like it might keep him from saying something too bold again. Rey’s parents are only a few paces ahead, already halfway down the aisle, and her mother turns with a bright smile that instantly makes Rey bristle.
“Oh! Finn, dear, will you be sitting with us?” her mother smiles softly, polite but pleased. “You know you’re always welcome.”
Rey feels herself shrinking.
Finn flushes at the attention, but grins. “Yes, ma’am. If that’s alright with you? I would hate to intrude. I was just hoping to get to know Rey, with being new here.”
Her mother preens. “Oh, don’t be silly! You’re always welcome! It’s lovely to see Reyline making a new friend.”
She glances up at her father, but he just gives a curt nod, clearly satisfied. A boy like Finn — clean-cut, polite, Christian.
They settle in, Rey wedged neatly between Finn and her mother. He sits with his hands folded, eyes respectfully forward, the image of a boy raised to keep elbows off the table and minds on scripture. Rey can already feel the heat of her mother’s satisfaction radiating off her shoulder. Her father nods approvingly, then opens the hymnal with a worn, familiar sigh, as though the pages have nothing left to teach him.
Rey tucks her ankles to the side and folds her hands carefully in her lap.
The church is full now, every pew packed, the air humming with whispered pleasantries and the faint crackle of the old fans above. Rey can already feel the fabric of her dress sticking to her back.
Mr. Solo is three rows ahead, angled slightly toward the pulpit, his shoulders square and unmoving. His dark jacket cuts a clean line through the muted palette of congregational greys and the pastel colors of the mothers of Elmridge, and though he isn’t looking at her, Rey feels the presence of him like a thumb pressed softly against an old bruise; satisfyingly painful in a way that feels like she's doing something she isn't supposed to.
A hymn begins, rising around them in imperfect harmony.
Rey sings only half the lines, mouthing the rest.
Beside her, Finn’s voice is surprisingly strong — clear, even sweet. He doesn’t over-sing like some boys do to show off, like Snap Wexley always seems to do. He just sounds earnest. Good.
He leans close and whispers, “Your dad always sings the loudest, huh?”
Rey lets out a faint huff of amusement — not quite a laugh — and nods. “He says the Lord likes confidence.”
Finn chuckles. “Well then, he would love my Uncle Reggie. He can’t hold a note to save his life, but he belts it like he’s on Broadway.”
Rey covers her mouth, trying not to giggle. She can feel her mother’s side-glance already, though no correction comes.
He leans a little closer during the final verse. “You have a nice voice,” he whispers.
Rey glances at him, startled, her lips parting just slightly.
“I mean it,” he adds quickly. “Not too loud. Not too quiet either. Just... nice.”
Her first instinct is to brush it off — to say something silly, like how her mother makes her sing along at home even when she doesn’t want to. But instead, her eyes drift forward again, and she finds herself watching the man seated ahead, whose face she can only just glimpse in profile.
You want me to be proud of you.
The words aren’t spoken, but they’re there, lingering in the back of her mind like a scold.
And maybe that’s why she turns back to Finn, lifts her chin a little, and says, “Thank you.”
She’s not sure why it makes her feel bold. Or why her heart beats faster when she sees Mr. Solo shift slightly — still listening to the man beside him, but eyes now angled back, just barely, toward her pew.
Rey pretends not to notice.
A soft clatter of hymnals follows the final note as people begin to sit again, the minister stepping forward to the pulpit with a gracious smile and a firm tap of his Bible.
Finn leans in once more, voice low. “I was thinking—if you’re free next weekend… maybe I could treat you to a milkshake or something. Just something small. It’d be my treat.”
Rey opens her mouth — hesitates.
Then she looks forward again. At the clean slope of Mr. Solo’s back. Mr. Solo is still facing the pulpit, still seated perfectly upright, the back of his neck pale above his collar, the line of his shoulder too neat. But she knows he’s listening. She knows he hears. The pew creaked slightly when Finn leaned closer, and Mr. Solo doesn’t miss things. He’s the kind of man who watches without turning, who files away every detail whether you meant to give it or not.
She remembers his voice. She remembers the way he looked at her across the dinner table. Not warmly. Not kindly. But deeply — like he could see through her, into the parts she tries to keep soft and silly and small. The parts that wanted him to say she looked nice. That wanted him to notice her dress. That wanted him to see her.
And he did. Just not the way she wanted.
You’re sulking because I didn’t look at you.
Rey turns back to Finn. His eyes are wide and waiting. There’s no judgement in them. Just hope. And suddenly, like it isn’t rebellion but necessity, she turns back to Finn and says—
“I’d like that.”
Finn lights up — practically glows. His smile breaks across his whole face, like it can’t help itself, and he ducks his head slightly, like the happiness might spill over if he doesn’t contain it.
“Yeah?” he says. “Really?”
“Really.”
He grins wider, and Rey gives him a small smile in return, because she means it — at least partly. She does like him. He’s kind, and the way he looks at her is gentle, like he’s not expecting anything more than what she gives. But even as she holds his gaze, even as her shoulders ease with the relief of having made a decision that feels, for once, hers. But even as she says yes to one boy, her gaze keeps drifting forward.
He’s sweet, she thinks. Earnest in a way that doesn’t make her feel small. Not the way Mr. Solo makes her feel — like everything about her is still unshaped, still half-formed, still waiting to be corrected.
And still, she looks forward again. Back to the man who hasn’t turned once. Who hasn’t acknowledged her presence since walking into the room.
He’s not listening. She’s imagining it. Or maybe he is, and he just doesn’t care.
That thought stings worse than it should.
When Rey glances sideways toward Rose, her friend catches her eye instantly — eyebrows arched, both thumbs up, grinning like she just witnessed a miracle. Rey fights the smile tugging at her lips and rolls her eyes, shrugging with one shoulder.
It’s not a big deal.
It’s just a milkshake.
Still, the rest of the pew feels warmer than before. Her palms are damp and her cheeks pink, but she sits straighter, fingers folded neatly over her skirt. She tells herself this is fine — more than fine — and that she’s not doing it for any reason except that she wanted to. Because Finn is sweet. Because she’s allowed to say yes to something.
And when Mr. Solo tilts his head the smallest degree — as if to scratch his jaw, as if to stretch — and his eyes sweep back once more toward her and that’s all it takes. That small shift. That quiet, almost imperceptible change in posture. Rey watches it and feels something small and mean and glowing come alive in her chest.
Rey doesn’t look away.
Not this time.
She lets him see her nod at Finn. Then forward as Mr. Solo’s hand rises slowly to adjust his collar, and even though he doesn’t look back, she knows he felt her watching.
And that somehow, that was always the point.
She folds her hands primly in her lap and turns her eyes back to the pulpit as the sermon begins, her heart fluttering beneath the ribcage she’s spent sixteen years learning to keep still.
The minister speaks in a calm, deliberate rhythm. Something about humility, and the importance of accepting one’s place in the Lord’s order. A man’s authority. A woman’s role in the home. Rey hears the words, but they feel distant — like they’re being read through cotton. She nods when her mother nods. She bows her head when the rest of the room does.
When the service ends, it takes a while for the congregation to begin rising. Hymnals are returned to their holders with soft thuds, fans are folded, and people begin that slow, Sunday shuffle out of the pews with polite greetings and murmurs about roast dinners waiting at home.
Rey stands with the rest of her family, smoothing the skirt of her dress with both hands. Finn is beside her still, one hand pressed briefly to the pew as he stands. His shoulder brushes hers for half a second and she steps aside too quickly, cheeks pink. He doesn’t seem to notice. He’s still smiling.
“Thank you for letting me sit with you,” he says quietly to her parents.
Her mother beams. “Oh, nonsense. You’re welcome any time, Finn. You’re a lovely boy. And so polite!” She glances between the two of them, eyes twinkling now with just a trace of suggestion. “And I happened to overhear someone asking our Reyline out for a milkshake.”
Rey nearly trips over her own shoes.
“Mama,” she hisses, her voice sharp and mortified.
Finn blushes so hard his ears turn red, but he laughs and rubs the back of his neck. “Just thought it’d be nice. You know. If she’s free. I mean—if that’s alright. I wasn’t trying to—”
“Oh hush, you’re being sweet,” her mother says, clearly pleased. “It’s about time my Reyline had some fun outside the house. All that needlepoint’s enough to make anyone cross-eyed.”
Rey tries to laugh, but it catches in her throat. The air feels thicker suddenly — not hot like before, but heavy, expectant. Like a string being pulled somewhere behind her shoulder blades.
She turns.
Mr. Solo is standing only a few paces away, his conversation with Pastor Hux clearly concluded. The pastor, still murmuring something about committee meetings, nods and drifts off, leaving Mr. Solo framed neatly in the sunlight beside the whitewashed chapel wall, his shadow falling across the grass in a long, elegant cut.
“Mrs. Niima. Ronald,” he says, voice smooth and low as ever. “I was hoping I might catch you.”
Her father steps forward at once, eager as always. “Mr. Solo, pleasure, as always. I hope everything was to your satisfaction at the dinner?”
“Very much so. Thank you.” Mr. Solo offers the faintest smile, polite, unreadable. Then his eyes slide, ever so slightly, to Rey. “You all looked very well.”
Her mother gives a soft laugh, one hand pressing lightly to her chest. “Oh, you’re too kind. We were honored to be there. The chicken was divine.”
Mr. Solo doesn’t look at her mother when he answers. “I’m glad to hear it. I wanted to note that I thought Reyline carried herself well.”
Rey flinches, not visibly, she hopes, but the words land like the tap of a ruler against a wrist, her gaze dropping to the gravel at her feet.
“She always does,” her father says, placing a broad hand on Rey’s shoulder. “We’ve tried to raise her right. She’s obedient.”
“Obedience is rare in a girl these days,” Mr. Solo says eyes resting now, unmistakably, on Rey. “It’s worth cultivating.”
Rey’s throat tightens. Her mouth is dry. The compliment doesn’t feel like praise. It feels like instruction.
Rey’s mother beams as if complemented herself. “I agree completely. I’ve always told my Reyline ever since she was a little girl that the Lord doesn’t bless a woman who can’t obey her husband.”
“Quite right,” he nods. “In fact, I was hoping to borrow her again this week, actually,” he continues, gaze sliding to her father with familiar ease. “Wednesday evening, if that suits your household. There’s been an increase in supply deliveries at the office, and I could use someone steady to help with inventory. I thought it might help her learn some skills.”
“Of course, Mr. Solo,” her father replies immediately with far too much pride. “You let us know what time.”
Mr. Solo’s dark eyes flick to Rey. “Of course. She knows the way.”
Rey swallows. The back of her neck prickles.
“Seven o’clock,” he adds, not to her father, but to her. “Promptness is a virtue, after all. Besides, she’s at her best when she’s not distracted.”
The words fall soft and smooth, dressed in civility. But Rey feels them land like a hand closing gently around the nape of her neck. Not cruel, but claiming. Pointed. She tenses beside her mother, jaw tight.
Finn shifts behind them. “I hope I’m not keeping her from anything important,” he says lightly, clearly trying to make a good impression.
Mr. Solo’s eyes only flick to him. His expression doesn’t change.
Rey nods before she even realizes she’s doing it. “Yes, sir.”
Her mother beams beside her, clearly pleased by Rey’s manners.
Then Mr. Solo turns back to Rey’s father.
“Ronald,” he says, voice still level, polite as ever, “Would you mind walking with me a moment? There’s something I’d like to speak with you about.”
Rey’s stomach drops. The heat prickles at the back of her neck.
Her father straightens. “Of course.”
Without another word, Mr. Solo steps aside and gestures toward the gravel path, and the two men begin walking slowly toward the back edge of the church lot, past the hedge where the shade is deeper. They’re speaking low, heads angled toward one another, but even from here, Rey can tell her father’s face is serious now, his chin tucked, brows slightly drawn.
Her mother exhales like someone’s just offered her the winning number in a raffle.
“Well,” she says, reaching for her purse strap again. “That’s a good sign.”
Rey doesn’t answer. Her hands twist quietly around the hem of her cardigan.
She glances over her shoulder, toward the path.
They’re still walking. Mr. Solo is speaking, gesturing once with his hand. Her father nods.
Finn leans in slightly beside her, voice quiet. “Is everything alright?”
She forces a smile. “I think so.”
But the lie sits heavy behind her ribs. Because the truth is, she doesn’t know. Doesn’t know why he’s asked her father aside. Doesn’t know what he’s saying. But she feels it in her chest - a slow constriction, like the thread between them is being pulled tighter again.
And she hates that part of her likes it.
Notes:
This is largely un-edited for now but I will go back and reread it. As always, comments mean the world to me, and I hope you're enjoying so far!
Chapter 7: All in Good Order
Notes:
This chapter is a monster so good luck! I very nearly split it in two but I didn't want two short chapters so here we are
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Wednesday comes too soon.
It arrives folded in the hum of morning heat that’s already pressing into the seams of Rey’s dress as she approaches the tall, familiar door of Mr. Solo’s house, her hand lifted and motionless, poised like it might knock without her. She doesn’t move yet. The porch boards creak faintly beneath her shoes, and the air smells of sunbaked hedges and something faintly metallic — paint, maybe, or the scent of rusted nails beneath the porch. She smooths the front of her dress for the third time and blinks toward the wood grain.
Something about today feels different. It has since Sunday. Since the way Mr. Solo had looked at her across the churchyard while she stood beside Finn—his gaze heavy and unreadable, his mouth a flat line that made her stomach knot like she’d said something shameful without speaking a word. It was the look people give dogs who’ve dragged mud through the living room. Not cruel. No, Mr. Solo doesn’t show his displeasure in rage or volume, just a quiet disappointment in the silence he leaves and the thin line of his lips.
But she hasn’t done anything wrong. All she did was say yes, and Finn seems sweet. He’s new in town anyway, and she’s just being a kind neighbor. That’s all. What was she supposed to do? Be rude?
That’s probably what he expects, she thinks. Mr. Solo is always rude.
She presses her lips together. Mr. Solo isn’t the boss of her anyway.
Still, she’d spent all of Tuesday evening in the kitchen, her apron dusted with flour, baking batch after batch of cookies from the recipe book she and Rose bought at the mall a couple of weeks back. The first batch burned. The second tasted like baking soda. But the third came out golden, soft, and delicate around the edges like the picture in the book. She arranged them carefully in wax paper and tied them with a red string from Mama’s sewing basket. Perhaps they’ll make Mr. Solo look upon her a little kinder today than she anticipates.
Her father scolded her for the mess, telling her that if she were planning on baking more often that she should improve her sweeping skills at the same rate. Though, something in his demeanour looked proud that Rey was putting effort into what he likes to call “homeliness.”
But Mama, after taking one bite and humming through her nose, whispered, “They taste wonderful, baby,” and kissed her on the forehead.
So, Rey held onto that. She holds onto it still, fingers curled now around the ribboned bundle in her handbag, heart loud in her chest as she finally knocks.
The door opens slower than usual. Mr. Solo stands there, same white shirt, sleeves rolled past his elbows, his hair neatly parted and still damp at the temples. His glasses catch the light as he looks down at her with that same unreadable gaze, and Rey stiffens like she’s been caught sneaking.
“Miss. Niima, always so prompt,” he says simply, stepping aside.
She nods, and slips out of her shoes after stepping into the familiar hush of the house. It smells the same, like polish and paper and something like cloves. But the air feels different. Tighter somehow. He doesn’t ask about the cookies, and so she places them gently on the coffee table in the living room, hesitating only a second before turning back.
“In here,” he says, turning toward the room she’s never entered before.
The study is different from the rest of the house. It’s cooler, quieter, and Rey notices that the blinds are drawn and a thick curtain has been pulled halfway across one of the windows, blocking the light. Stacks of papers line the edges of the long oak desk, and there’s a small cabinet in the corner with a locked drawer and a ledger laid beside it. Mr. Solo sits behind the desk, a pencil already in hand, his fingers long and still.
“Come,” he says simply, gesturing toward the seat in front of him at the desk.
Rey crosses the room and takes a seat, smoothing her skirt beneath her thighs before settling in. Her bracelet clinks faintly as she rests her hands on the desk and she winces at the bright, twinkling sound.
“We’re doing inventory,” he says, tapping the ledger once with the eraser. “These are manifests from last week’s shipment. I want you to compare them against the recorded inventory on the slips. If the numbers don’t match, mark it with a check. If they do, make a line through both. Neatly.”
She nods. It sounds easy enough, she thinks.
The ledger creaks as she opens it. Her hands are steady, but her cheeks are hot.
He hands her a pencil, and for a few minutes, the room falls into soft concentration. Rey leans forward, tracing the columns with care, her eyes narrowing to match line to line, her lips moving as she counts under her breath and her tongue poking out just slightly at the corner of her mouth.
“You’re whispering,” he says after a moment without lifting his head from his own work, his voice calm.
She freezes.
“Sorry.”
He looks up, his brown eyes peering at her over the top of his glasses and Rey flushes, looking down quickly to avoid his gaze as he watches her work. Not constantly, but every time she dares glance up, his eyes are already moving away like she caught them where they didn’t belong. His leg shifts closer beneath the desk, his knee nearly brushing hers when he leans forward to check her column work.
It’s not difficult work, but it’s fussy — each page filled with nearly identical numbers and tiny handwriting that makes her eyes strain. Still, she keeps going. She doesn’t want to disappoint him.
After a while, he reaches over, and without speaking, lays a finger against the top of her column.
“This one is marked wrong.”
Her breath catches.
He leans in just slightly, and the fabric of his sleeve brushes against hers as he reaches across to erase the line with precise, deliberate movements. The scent of him, something clean, and faintly like cedar catches in her throat. She doesn't move, frozen to the spot in her seat as a small bead of sweat forms at the base of her neck.
“You’re pressing too hard, Miss. Niima. Use your wrist, not your arm.”
He demonstrates, fingers brushing hers as he guides the pencil once, lightly.
Rey’s pulse stutters and she’s overcome with the urge to run away.
Instead, she nods and adjusts her grip, loosening her hands and willing her fingers to not shake.
For several more pages, neither of them speaks. The only sound is the soft scratch of graphite and the occasional shift of weight as the pages are turned. And yet, with every passing moment, Rey can feel the distance between them shrinking. He doesn’t lean away again. His knee bumps hers beneath the desk once. Lingers. And when she fumbles a number and mutters an apology, he doesn’t scold her, just hums, quiet and low, and taps once against the page.
The chair creaks faintly when Rey shifts her weight, though she tries not to let it. Her knees are pressed together, ankles crossed like her mother taught her, hands resting lightly on the open ledger before her. The room is hushed—too quiet, almost—like a library with no windows, only the heavy breath of paper and dust.
Mr. Solo doesn’t speak. He hadn’t said much when she arrived, only nodded and spoke a handful of words as he gestured toward the room where he now sits behind the desk, sleeves rolled neatly, collar pressed flat against his neck. He’s not looking at her. Not directly. She watches him for a moment as he reads something, his eyes still, the motion of his pencil as deliberate as everything else he does. His dark hair is pushed up slightly, as if he’s been running his fingers through it, and the same few strands curl just beneath his ears, brushing against his collar every time he cranes his neck.
Rey looks back down to focus on her page, forcing herself to think about anything else. A column of numbers, the clean writing, anything but the feeling of his legs so close to her. She draws a clean line through each matched figure and checks the boxes where things are missing or miscounted. Her pencil moves carefully now, guided by her fear of doing something wrong again. She tells herself it’s just office work. Just a favor. It isn’t that serious.
Still, she’s aware of him.
His chair doesn’t squeak when he shifts. His breathing doesn’t catch. Even the sound of him setting a page down is quiet, composed, and every time she dares glance at him, she finds nothing out of place. His cuff is buttoned. His jaw is set. The light in the room falls just behind him, so she has to squint slightly when he turns toward her.
She adjusts her posture as quietly as possible, trying to sit straighter. Her bracelet clinks faintly against the edge of the desk, and she tucks her wrist in quickly, hoping he hadn’t noticed
Another minute passes.
She feels his gaze move—just a shift of weight in the room, a faint sensation at the edge of her skin.
He’s watching her now.
Her heart kicks up a little. She doesn't look at him.
The silence stretches. Her pencil scratches faintly.
She tells herself it’s only the work that matters.
But her legs are warm beneath the desk. Not from the weather—it’s cooler here, the drapes drawn and the light filtered—but from the nearness of him. His knee is close to hers. Not touching, not even grazing, but near enough to feel like a current in the air.
She tries not to think about what it would feel like if his leg shifted just an inch, if it brushed against hers or pressed hard into her thigh. She tries even harder not to think about the way he smells every time he stands and passes her to fetch another document.
She could drown in it, she thinks. Peacefully, even. Though everything about it sets her skin ablaze and makes the thought of anything else so utterly impossible. He’s impossible.
It’s not fair, how aware she is, while he sits there still, composed and unaffected. She doesn’t think she’s ever really seen him affected by anything.
Meanwhile, she’s aware of everything—the tiny squeak of her chair when she moves, the way her bracelet occasionally clinks against the wood, the dry sound of her swallow when she forgets not to breathe through her mouth.
And his leg. Still there. Still close.
She hears his breath, quiet and even, from the other side of the desk.
She turns the page and marks another line, her work now clean, almost perfect.
“You’re getting faster,” Mr. Solo says as he marks a line through a sentence on his page, his gaze focused on the paper beneath him.
Her breath catches, her cheeks flushed as if she’d stuffed them with hot coals and she rushes to spew out an apology. “I’m trying, S-Sir, I – “
“That’s not what I said, Miss. Niima. You’re improving.” he looks up at her, his glasses having slipped a little further down his nose, catching the light. For a second he doesn’t blink, just studies her, and Rey pushes her hands beneath her thighs at the urge to reach across the desk and push them back up for him.
He’d certainly send her home and tell her Daddy all about her inappropriate behaviour.
She pauses, then nods. “Yes, Sir.”
He nods back, then returns to marking something on his paper.
The compliment isn’t quite a compliment, Rey thinks to herself, but it isn’t nothing. She holds onto it, sitting up straighter and trying to hide the way her lips turn up at the corners.
She tries to focus on the work again, but her fingers tremble slightly now. The pencil feels heavier than it should. The ledger suddenly looks like it belongs to someone else.
“Your father agrees,” he says, his deep voice cutting through the silence.
She lifts her head, eyebrows furrowed as she looks at him. “About… what?”
“That you’re better occupied here.”
Rey goes still.
“Oh.”
“He thinks it’s good for you. Keeps you from distraction. Teaches discipline. Your father is a smart man; he understands that the home is where women learn the role they’re suited for. School and… friends, are a distraction and make for loud women who start getting ideas about the world.”
Her mouth is dry. “I wasn’t… distracted.”
He doesn’t respond.
She wants to protest. Say that she was doing her chores. That she’s working on her baking and needlepoint, and only said yes to Finn because it was polite. Because it would’ve been rude not to. She wants to say that she hadn’t done anything wrong. She isn’t loud.
But she doesn’t.
Because somewhere beneath all of that, she isn’t sure anymore.
Maybe she had wanted someone to notice. Maybe she had wanted Mr. Solo to see her. Maybe that was the worst part. That perhaps it might be all her fault. He’s probably sitting across from her, the meek teenage daughter of a man who merely works for him, and trying to focus on his work like any normal man. Even worse, what if he doesn’t think of her at all. She’d rather he be sat in his chair and thinking that she’s annoying, or finding himself mildly irritated at the way she can’t stop shifting in her seat. God forbid he knows why she can’t stop shifting.
“Am I a distraction?” Rey asks, her voice barely louder than the scratch of pencil on paper. It comes out before she can catch it, a small and traitorous thing that betrays the quiet storm building behind her ribs.
Across the desk, he doesn’t answer right away. He doesn’t even look at her. But the air shifts in a way that makes her regret asking — not because she thinks it was wrong, but because she can feel the shape of his attention change. Like something being folded and set aside.
“Yes,” he says finally with a resigned sigh.
The word lands with more weight than it ought to, simple as it is, and her breath falters in her throat. She stares down at the ledger, not really seeing the columns anymore, her heart ticking loud and uneven behind her breastbone.
She wants to ask what kind of distraction she is. Whether it’s her voice, her presence, her clumsy handwriting, or the way she sometimes frowns when she concentrates. She wants to ask if it’s something he resents, or something else entirely. But instead of speaking, she lowers her head and lets the silence stretch between them. Her fingers tighten slightly around the pencil, the paper beneath her hands suddenly feeling too thin, too loud in its stillness.
Silence hangs heavy in the air once more and Rey bites at the inside of her cheek while she tries to stop herself from gripping the pencil too hard, telling herself to behave. To stop trying to draw something from him she doesn’t understand.
Then, out of nowhere, his hand reaches across the desk, and he taps the top of her paper, just once, lightly, near the top margin. The movement is quiet but deliberate, his sleeve brushing the edge of her notebook. “Here,” he says, his voice low but close enough now that it hums somewhere beneath her skin.
She looks up before she can stop herself, except this time he’s watching her, and her breath catches as their eyes meet. Rey forgets how to breathe for a second.
There’s nothing overt in his expression, nothing inappropriate or unkind, but it’s the stillness of him that does it. The calm certainty with which he looks at her, as if he already knows what she’s going to do next. As if it doesn’t matter.
“You marked it twice.”
Her skin prickles. Her mouth feels strange—dry and too full all at once. She suddenly wishes she’d brought water, or that she could open the window, or that she wasn’t sitting quite so close to him in a room so small and still and lined with so many quiet things.
She glances down to look at the page, her gaze passing his lips on the way.
She sees it now – a faint line, an accidental duplication.
“I didn’t mean to—”
“I know.”
He takes the pencil from her without needing to ask and draws a single, confident stroke through the extra mark. When he hands it back, their fingers almost touch — not quite, not enough to call it contact, but enough to light something low in her belly that curls there and won’t uncoil.
And then he’s back to his side of the desk. Back to his papers, his pen, his silence.
Rey remains still for a moment longer than necessary, her fingers hovering above the page, the pencil suddenly heavier in her hand than it was a moment ago. She tells herself to focus, that he corrected her mistake and said nothing more, that she ought to feel relieved. But something in her bristles. She hadn’t wanted it to end there. She doesn’t understand why, but the quick dismissal makes her feel like a door was closed too fast.
Her eyes drift back to the page, then to his hands as they move steadily across his own work. His sleeves are rolled, neat and symmetrical, exposing the clean lines of his forearms. His posture hasn’t changed. His face is unreadable. He doesn’t look at her again. He doesn’t correct her further.
And for some reason she doesn’t quite understand, that bothers her.
Rey sits motionless for a beat too long, her fingers resting lightly on the desk, the page clean beneath her now except for the narrow row of figures waiting to be reviewed. She stares at the numbers but doesn’t see them. Not really. The only thing she sees is his hand as he returns to his own work, steady, capable, uninterested. The way his cuff sits straight on his wrist. The way he doesn’t look at her again.
She tells herself it’s fine. That this is better. That it’s good to be competent.
But something coils in her gut, low and restless.
She picks up the pencil. The tip is still sharp from when he last corrected her.
And then, without fully thinking, she marks a box that she knows is wrong.
It’s subtle. Just a single line instead of a checkmark, but her pulse stutters all the same and the breath she draws feels thinner than the one before. The quantity matches perfectly, but she skips the line and continues down the page, pretending not to notice. Her breath hitches faintly, part nerves, part something else, and she presses her palm flat to her thigh to keep from fidgeting.
She waits.
Ten seconds.
Fifteen.
Then she feels it—the weight of his gaze again. Sliding to the column. Then, a pause in his pen. The faint, almost inaudible shift of his weight.
He doesn’t speak.
She marks another line — bolder this time. A checkmark where it doesn’t belong. Her hands feel clammy and her knees lock together tightly beneath the desk.
The moment it lands, she hears the scrape of his chair against the floor as he stands up, and she stops breathing.
The sound of it is unmistakably final and makes something twist in her gut. She doesn’t dare lift her head. Her entire body is braced for something she can’t name. All she sees now is the edge of the desk, the hem of her skirt, the tremble in her own hand.
He moves slowly around the desk, and she watches the edge of his trousers appear in her periphery as he comes to stand behind her so close that she can feel the warmth of his presence against her back. Suddenly the air feels thinner, closer.
He doesn’t touch her.
Doesn’t say her name.
Then finally, his voice comes, quiet, low, and close enough to make her spine go straight, the warmth of his breath threading through the wisps of her hair in a way that makes her skin tingle. “You’ve marked two lines incorrectly.”
Rey doesn’t move. “Oh,” she says, barely above a whisper.
“Shall I assume you’re tired?”
She swallows. “No, sir.”
Another pause.
“Then I’ll assume you’re being careless.”
Her breath hitches in her throat. “I…I wasn’t trying to be.”
He says nothing for a moment. Then she hears the faint rustle of his sleeve as he leans in, his hand moving past her shoulder to reach for the pencil. This time, when his fingers brush hers, it’s not accidental. The contact is brief but unmistakable. Firm, and certain, and warm.
“You were doing fine,” he says softly, the pencil now in his hand. “And now you’re not.”
The words are not cruel. They’re not even disappointed. But they’re measured. Precise.
Like everything he does.
She can’t answer. She’s too hot. Too close to unravelling. Her pulse is fast now. Everywhere. She feels it in her throat, in her ears, in her wrist where his fingers had touched just moments before.
He sets the pencil down on the desk.
“One more,” he says. “And I’ll assume you want the attention.”
She almost says something. Almost blurts out some stupid excuse about sleep or focus or being new to numbers, but it catches in her throat. Because she does want it. She wants something.
Her brain offers her thoughts she doesn’t want. Things she doesn’t mean. Like the memory of how his fingers looked when they adjusted the edge of the paper. How long they are. How slow. How intentional his every move is and how strong his grip must be with hands so big…
Even as shame prickles at her skin, part of her wants to do it again.
He steps away again. Quiet. Controlled.
She waits until she hears him sit back down.
Then, slowly, and yet bolder than she’s ever felt before, she draws the wrong line again, a current of adrenaline running through her like a wildfire.
She's never known silence to be so violent.
It stretches like thread across the room, and Rey can hear her heartbeat racing in her chest. Can hear the slight tremble in her breath as she lowers the pencil and wills her hands to be still.
Mr. Solo doesn’t speak.
He lets the silence build, allowing it to fill the room until she wants to fold inside it and disappear.
And then, with a calmness that only makes it worse, he says, “Is that how you want to do this?”
She turns slightly in her chair, unable to look him in the eyes. “S-Sir?”
“I warned you, did I not?”
Her mouth opens, but no sound comes out.
Smack.
Rey startles, flinching in her seat at the sharp sound of him closing the ledger in front of him. He’s watching her, his gaze piercing and Rey can’t look for longer than a second, fearing that she might shrink into nothingness if she looks at him too long.
He leans back in his chair, but his fingers drum once—just once—against the cover of the closed ledger.
He exhales slowly through his nose, then reaches up and removes his glasses before running a hand through his already disheveled hair.
The motion is quiet and deliberate, and suddenly the silence feels louder somehow. He folds the arms carefully and sets them down on the desk with a faint click that sounds louder than it should. The air between them stretches. Her breath comes in shallow pulls.
She doesn’t know where to look.
Doesn’t know what he sees when he looks at her like that.
And then he says it. Quiet. Plain. Like he’s telling her the weather.
“If you keep doing it on purpose, Miss. Niima, I won’t hesitate to take you over my knee.”
Rey’s stomach flips. Her skin prickling ice cold as her eyes go wide, and for a moment, all the thoughts in her head scatter like birds startled from a wire.
The silence that follows the warning is thick and almost unreal, like the air itself has curdled around them. Rey doesn't breathe for a long moment. She’s still hunched over the page, the dull ache in her hand now eclipsed by the thudding in her chest. Her knees are pressed tightly together beneath the desk, her skin hot under the hem of her dress, and something rawer still is blooming low in her stomach, dark and shivering. She tells herself it’s fear. Or shame. But it doesn’t feel exactly like either.
She knows what he said. She knows what it means. Not just the words, but the control wrapped up in the way he said it and the way he didn’t hesitate. The calmness of it. How certain he was.
She wants to be angry. She wants to feel embarrassed or humiliated — to recoil the way she knows a good girl should. But instead, her spine feels like it’s made of wire, strung tight between the tips of her shoulder blades. The muscles in her thighs are taut. Her breath is shallow and fast, and she can’t stop thinking about the heat of his fingers when he took the pencil from her hand.
She’s seen her Daddy punish Mama with his hands before whenever she’s gotten a little too bold with him, but never something so humiliating.
Rey’s cheeks flush a warm pink, and for a moment, she can’t conjure a single thought.
She stays very still, as if any movement might betray the heat rushing beneath her skin.
He’s still looking at her, glasses slightly lowered on the bridge of his nose, expression unreadable. Not cruel. Not warm. Just certain.
“Do I make myself clear?” he asks.
She nods before she can stop herself and he nods slowly to mirror her own. “Yes, sir.”
She expects him to say more. To clarify. To scold her. But he doesn’t. He just opens his own book again and begins to write, as if nothing had happened.
Rey stares at her own page, her fingers stiff and useless in her lap. Her cheeks are burning. Her thoughts swirl, too many, too fast. She doesn’t know what she’s supposed to feel. She doesn’t know why a part of her feels seen in a way she hadn’t expected. She doesn’t even know if she’s embarrassed or thrilled.
Not when her thoughts are running like this — fast and breathless and treacherous. She wants to undo them. Wipe them away. But they sit there, sticky and hot, refusing to be dislodged.
She moves her hand slightly, just to reach for the pencil again and even that feels too loud. The pad of her thumb brushes the wood and her fingers close around it slowly.
She knows she shouldn’t do it. She shouldn’t test him again.
But something in her wants to know if he meant it.
The thought alone is shameful enough to make her cheeks burn. Her body wants to shrink from it, but something else, something quieter, lower, curls around the feeling like a cat settling into warmth.
She doesn’t draw another mark. Not yet. She only writes, careful and steady, one correct figure. Then another.
She wants to earn his approval again. She wants to know that he sees her, that he’s still watching.
But he doesn’t say anything.
She thinks maybe he’s already forgotten it. That maybe she imagined the whole thing. But when she finally allows herself to look up, just for a second, she sees the way his jaw is set, the way he’s writing without looking at what he’s writing.
He’s still angry. Or maybe something worse.
She returns to her task and checks another box. This one is slightly off. Barely. A faint slip in the alignment.
It’s enough.
She hears it, the faint stop in the turn of his pen. The inhale. The creak of his chair as he leans back ever so slightly. She doesn’t look. Doesn’t dare look at him while her whole body is burning with anticipation she doesn’t understand.
And then, as if summoned by some awful twist of fate, a knock comes at the door. Just two sharp, polite raps.
Mr. Solo doesn’t react immediately. She hears the sound but doesn’t quite process it until his pen halts completely and he lifts his head toward the hallway.
He’s silent for a breath. Then another.
And then, without even glancing at her, he sighs a heavy breath.
“Stay here.”
Rey doesn’t move.
Her fingers tighten around the pencil again, the wood slick against her palm. Her breath catches in her throat, and the heat inside her, the low, churning thing she doesn't have words for, stutters like a flame caught in a gust of wind.
She doesn’t even hear his footsteps at first. Only when he rises, smooth, unfaltering, and crosses the room toward the front hall does she realize just how loud her pulse is.
She stares at the papers in front of her, but her eyes can’t make sense of the lines anymore. Her face is still hot, her skin flushed from neck to brow, and she’s never felt less like a good girl in her life.
She’s never been touched like that. Not really.
And he hadn’t even touched her.
Not properly.
Only her fingers, briefly. Only the air around her. Only the idea of it.
She swallows hard, tries to force her mind to still. But the shape of his voice lingers. She hears it again in her memory — steady and quiet and so sure of her.
If you keep doing it on purpose, Miss. Niima, I won’t hesitate to take you over my knee.
She presses her thighs together more tightly, heart fluttering behind her ribs.
Somewhere in the front room, the door creaks open.
A bright, chiming voice floats in. Familiar. Cloying.
Mrs. Anders.
Rey stiffens.
Another voice follows, this one soft, simpering, too sweet by half.
Chrissy.
Rey feels the shift instantly, like the snap of a curtain being pulled back. Whatever charged current had been building in the quiet of that office, it’s being diffused now — flattened beneath the weight of female voices and social obligation.
But something in her bristles.
He let them in.
Of course he did. Because that’s what a man like him is supposed to do. Politeness. Community standing. All that matters more than keeping the room to just the two of them.
Even though he knew.
Even though he’d just said those things.
Even though she’s still sitting here with her whole body aching in strange and confusing places.
Rey stares down at the paper and listens to the women cooing at the doorway. The sound of heels on tile. Of polite greetings. And all she can think about is how she’d made cookies from a book she bought just to impress him.
And now Chrissy is here.
Her stomach twists.
She doesn’t know what’s worse — the idea of him going back to them like nothing had happened, or the thought that maybe it had never meant anything to him at all.
Just another lesson. Another scolding. Another girl being corrected.
Rey lowers her eyes, and tries not to think about the way her skin still tingles.
“Benjamin!” Mrs. Anders’ voice spills into the house, overly bright, cutting through the quiet. “Chrissy and I were just passing by. We thought we’d stop in and bring you something sweet.”
Rey’s breath catches in her throat at the syrupy tone, as if the woman were talking to a child. The rustle of paper, a cheerful, high-pitched laugh from Chrissy. Rey’s jaw tightens involuntarily.
“Oh, we do hope we’re not interrupting,” Mrs. Anders adds, the words dripping like honey, heavy and insincere. “But you know, with everything to do with your wife, we thought you might appreciate some home cooking. No man should be left hungry in a big, empty house.”
There’s a pause, a fraction of silence too long, before Mr. Solo replies evenly, his voice polite but lacking warmth. “You’re very kind. Please, come in.”
Rey’s stomach drops at those words, resentment bubbling inside her chest. She cooks for him. Every time she visits, she brings something she’s made herself, each cookie baked painstakingly until it matches the picture in her recipe book. Her eyes dart toward the living room, toward the coffee table where her carefully wrapped cookies still sit untouched.
She hears Chrissy giggle again, the sharp click of Mrs. Anders’ heels against polished wood, and then the muffled sound of the front door closing.
“Won’t you sit?” Mr. Solo says politely, though Rey can hear the thin edge beneath his civility.
“Oh, thank you, Benjamin,” Mrs. Anders coos, as if he’d offered something extraordinary. Chrissy says nothing at first, and Rey imagines her standing there, smiling, pretty and vacant.
Rey rises slowly from her chair, her fingers trembling as she sets the pencil down. She smooths her skirt twice before moving toward the hallway. Her legs feel weak, and there’s an uncomfortable heat building at the back of her neck.
When she steps into the living room, Mrs. Anders has already made herself comfortable on the sofa, her wide floral skirt arranged neatly around her knees. Chrissy perches primly beside her, her blonde curls bouncing slightly as she nods politely at whatever her mother is saying.
Mr. Solo stands by the mantle, watching them both with an unreadable expression.
Mrs. Anders looks up, catching sight of Rey, and gives a polite, dismissive nod. “Reyline, dear, would you be a doll and fetch us some tea? We brought these lemon bars to share, didn’t we, Chrissy?”
Chrissy nods eagerly, her eyes wide and blue and sweet enough to make Rey’s stomach twist uncomfortably.
“Yes, ma’am,” Rey murmurs, swallowing the tightness in her throat.
“Such a good girl,” Mrs. Anders says absently, already turning her attention back to Mr. Solo, leaning forward with a conspiratorial air. “Benjamin, I do worry about you. Men just aren’t made for homemaking, are they?”
Rey turns sharply toward the kitchen before she can see his response, unable to trust her own face. She boils water and arranges the cups carefully, her movements jerky and agitated as she places them on a polished silver tray before tying her apron around her waist. Every step feels heavier as she carries the drinks carefully back to the living room, her hands faintly trembling around the tray.
When she returns, she finds Mrs. Anders already opening the wax paper bundle she’d so carefully arranged earlier. Rey stops short, her breath coming in shallow, stunned pulls. Her cookies—her perfect cookies—are laid bare, unceremoniously set next to the plate of neat lemon bars Chrissy had carried in. Rey seethes, humiliation pushing into her ears like water.
“Oh, Benjamin,” Mrs. Anders says sweetly, lifting one of Rey’s cookies to her lips and taking a delicate bite. “These are delightful. Wherever did you get them?”
Rey’s heart sinks, her fingers tightening on the tray until her knuckles are white.
“Miss. Niima baked them,” Mr. Solo says simply, his eyes never leaving Rey’s face except to glance at her hands gripping the tray.
Mrs. Anders laughs lightly. “Oh, of course. Well, she’s certainly got a talent. You’ll make some bright young man very happy one day, dear. I heard about that Finn boy!”
Chrissy giggles softly beside her mother, and Rey feels her cheeks burn fiercely, her stomach twisting at the implication in Mrs. Anders’ words. She doesn’t want Chrissy to laugh at her. Not in front of Mr. Solo.
Mr. Solo watches her, his jaw grinding and his eyes dark, and Rey wants nothing more than to disappear.
“Tea,” Rey says quietly, placing the tray carefully on the table between them.
Mrs. Anders barely acknowledges her, already launching into conversation. “Oh! Benjamin, Chrissy’s been asking about the business. Such a curious girl, always wanting to learn. She’s becoming quite the homemaker herself. She cooks, cleans, you name it. And she wants plenty of children, my Chrissy.”
Chrissy blushes, lowering her eyes modestly as if rehearsed. Rey notices, irritated, how she glances shyly toward Mr. Solo, her long lashes fluttering bashfully. Rey wants to hit her.
Rey pours the tea silently, passing the cups around. Mr. Solo accepts his with a polite nod, his gaze flicking to Rey’s face briefly before returning to Mrs. Anders. His stillness has shifted slightly—his jaw subtly tense, fingers tapping faintly against his cup.
Mrs. Anders continues blithely, oblivious or uncaring. “We’ve been meaning to invite you to supper sometime soon. A proper meal with a proper family, you know. It does the soul good, having company.”
Chrissy nods enthusiastically, her curls bouncing again, her smile wide and vacant. Rey looks away sharply, her jaw tightening so hard she worried for a moment that her teeth might shatter.
Mr. Solo’s reply is courteous but distant. “Thank you, Mrs. Anders. I’ll consider it.”
Mrs. Anders beams, taking it as an enthusiastic yes. “Excellent. Chrissy, dear, pour some milk in your tea. Too much sugar isn’t good for your complexion.”
Rey stands silently, unnoticed again, and watches Chrissy carefully pour milk into her cup, obedient and demure. Her own cookies lie half-eaten beside the lemon bars, crumbs scattered carelessly on the polished table.
She feels suddenly as if she’s the staff, just hired help, someone invisible until needed. Her chest tightens painfully, but she forces herself to breathe evenly.
Rey murmurs something quietly, an excuse she barely hears herself, and moves swiftly toward the kitchen before anyone can stop her. The gentle click of her shoes against the polished floor is swallowed by the quiet rush in her ears, and she rounds the corner into the kitchen feeling as though she’s fleeing something she doesn’t yet fully understand.
Inside, the kitchen is cool and shadowed, the faint hum of the refrigerator providing a gentle undercurrent to her anxious thoughts. Rey braces her palms against the edge of the countertop, her fingers curling tight against the smooth, cool tile. She shuts her eyes, breathing in slowly, counting carefully with each exhale, trying desperately to push away the sharp knot forming in her throat.
It doesn’t help. The lump grows heavier, more persistent, and she feels tears pressing hotly at the backs of her eyelids, fierce and sudden. She doesn’t understand why they’re there—only that they are, burning with a shameful insistence, and that every attempt to suppress them only makes them worse.
Her mind spins, replaying each small humiliation from the afternoon. Mrs. Anders’ casual dismissal. Chrissy’s coy smile directed at Mr. Solo. Her cookies, eaten carelessly, like they were nothing. It aches, deep and inexplicable, twisting beneath her ribs. Worse still, beneath it all is something more troubling, something quieter and darker that surfaced in the office when Mr. Solo leaned close and murmured that quiet, shattering warning.
There are voices in the next room. Chrissy’s laugh floats through the wall like steam—high, delighted, and insufferable. Mrs. Anders is speaking now, something about family connections and her husband’s time in Chicago. Rey doesn’t listen to the words. Just the cadence. The lilt of performance.
She leans her hip against the table and exhales through her nose. She shouldn’t be feeling this way. Jealousy is ugly. Petty. Ungodly. She’s had it drilled into her since she was little—Don’t covet, Reyline. It makes your face ugly. Makes your soul worse.
But right now, she feels ugly anyway.
And small. And pushed aside.
She doesn’t know what she wants, only that she doesn’t want Chrissy sitting on the edge of his couch like she belongs there. She doesn’t want her biting into cookies Rey made like they’re nothing. She doesn’t want him nodding along to Mrs. Anders’ little remarks about Chrissy being ready for a husband, about how she’d make a fine mother, about how she already knows how to dress a roast and hem a skirt and make polite conversation with company.
Rey presses one hand briefly to her lips, forcing down a sob that threatens to break free, and leans heavily against the counter. She feels childish, overwhelmed, caught in a whirlwind of emotions she can’t identify, let alone control. Her chest aches in that tight, hollow way that means she’ll cry if she stops moving. But she won’t. She can’t. Not here. Not now. Not while he’s still in the other room, listening to every giggle and every rehearsed little story from a girl Rey can’t stand and doesn’t understand.
There’s a glass on the counter she doesn’t remember setting down and a spot on her dress where the apron has pulled tight. She unties it carefully and folds it, but she doesn’t leave. Not yet. She doesn’t want to see Chrissy’s smile again. Doesn’t want to hear Mrs. Anders say “Such a sweet girl, Benjamin. Such a homemaker already. You wouldn’t believe how good she is with children.”
They’re here for him. That much is obvious.
She hadn't meant to feel it. That tightening in her chest. That sinking, sickly feeling as she watched them flutter and fawn. But it was there. Even now, it lingers. Like something shameful.
Rey adjusts the towel draped over the sink rail. Then again. Just to do something.
She shouldn’t care. She really shouldn’t. She said yes to Finn. She has no right to feel this way.
She had sat there, grinning like a fool, and told a perfectly nice boy she wanted to get a milkshake with him, all while Mr. Solo sat in the third pew ahead and didn’t even turn around. He probably doesn’t care. He probably sees her as a child. He probably invited Chrissy here because she isn’t a child.
Rey stares down at the tabletop, heart tight, throat dry. She should feel happy for Chrissy. She really should. Chrissy is polite, and pretty, and already wears nylons without anyone asking.
She’s exactly the kind of girl a man like Mr. Solo would—
A floorboard creaks in the hallway. Rey stills.
She doesn’t hear Mr. Solo enter, only senses him suddenly behind her, a shadow in the doorway, quiet and still. She straightens abruptly, blinking rapidly to dispel the tears clouding her vision, but she can’t hide the slight tremor in her shoulders, or the flush of her cheeks.
The weight of his presence fills the room — not sudden, not loud, just… quiet and full, the way a summer storm builds behind the horizon. Her spine straightens without her permission. She pretends to still be busy, moving the glasses just enough to make a sound.
He says nothing at first.
Then: “They invited themselves.”
His voice is low, even. Not apologetic. Just factual, like a note left on a desk. Rey doesn’t answer right away, her fingers pausing on the rim of the glass, her reflection bending in the curve. When she does speak, it’s too soft.
“I know.”
There’s a silence after that. Not an awkward one. Just thick — the kind that fills a room and settles between two people without ever needing to be acknowledged. She doesn’t look at him, but she knows where he is — just inside the door, one hand still on the frame, like he hasn’t decided yet whether he means to stay.
“They took the cookies,” she says after a moment, her voice tighter than she intended.
She doesn’t mean it to sound like a complaint. Not really. But it comes out wrong — wounded and small.
He’s still for a beat.
“I saw.”
That’s all he says.
The faucet drips once. She dries the same glass twice.
“I shouldn’t be upset,” she adds quickly, forcing a smile that he can’t see. “I made them to be eaten, after all. It doesn’t matter who takes them.”
A pause.
“It does."
Something in her chest pulls tight.
She turns then, just slightly, enough to glance at him over her shoulder. He’s closer now — not far, but not at the threshold anymore. His hands are folded behind his back, his collar neat despite the warmth, and his eyes are fixed on her in that way that makes her feel like a string being plucked. His gaze is steady, unreadable, framed behind the thin gold of his glasses, and for a moment, neither of them speaks.
“You made them for me,” he says.
It isn’t a question.
Rey’s cheeks flush so suddenly it makes her eyes sting. She turns back to the sink, gripping the edge. She hates that he said it aloud. Hates more that it’s true.
“I didn’t say that,” she murmurs.
“No.”
Her chest tightens.
He steps closer.
It’s not a big movement. Just half a step, but it’s enough. She feels the heat of him now, the way he takes up the space between them. She can’t look at him anymore. Her eyes drop to the buttons of his shirt. The thread of his sleeves. The smoothness of his cuffs where the fabric folds back on itself like quiet restraint.
“But you hoped I’d like them,” he says, his voice lower now, less certain. “That I’d say something.”
Rey bites the inside of her cheek. Hard.
She doesn’t want to give him that. Not when she’s still humiliated by how easily Chrissy slipped into his dining room like she belonged there — her voice too loud, her blouse too tight, her laugh dragging across the walls like a fork across a plate. And her mother — Mrs. Anders — speaking like she already knew where the silverware should go. Like she was setting a table that would someday be hers.
Rey swallows, her throat tight.
“I wasn’t expecting anything,” she lies. “I was just trying something new. A recipe. I… I’ve been practicing.”
She feels him behind her. Closer now. Still no footsteps, but closer. She can tell by the heat. The scent of starch and aftershave and something else beneath it — old books, maybe, or cedar. It wraps around her like a coat left too long on a hook.
He doesn’t speak. The silence stretches.
“They said you look well,” he nods, his hands in his pockets.
Rey blinks.
He steps closer.
“Pretty,” he adds.
She breathes in, then out. Her fingers curl against the edge of the sink again.
“I didn’t know what to wear,” she says stupidly.
“That dress is fine.”
His eyes drop, just for a second, just long enough to make her feel the weight of them on the pale blue cotton. Then they rise again.
“You suit blue.”
The compliment isn’t warm. It isn’t even really a compliment. It feels more like a diagnosis. Like something he already knew and is only now saying aloud.
She nods mutely, her cheeks burning.
Then he takes another step, slower this time, and she can feel it in her knees, how her legs instinctively want to move, to back away or step forward, she’s not sure. Her body doesn’t know what to do with this kind of proximity. With this kind of attention. He’s close enough now that she has to lift her chin slightly to keep her eyes on his face.
“I shouldn’t be out here,” she says, her voice barely audible. “They’ll wonder.”
“They don’t matter.”
His gaze is steady, and for a long moment, neither of them speak.
Rey feels small. Not in the way she usually does when she’s dismissed or corrected, but in the way that makes her want to curl inward and become smaller still — like she might fold into herself and vanish if he got too close. Or worse: if he didn’t.
She can’t look at him. But she does.
Her lips part, just slightly, but no sound comes.
She isn’t sure what he sees when he looks at her like that — if it’s disappointment, or obedience, or some other thing he hasn’t named yet. But when he lifts his hand, slow and deliberate, and brushes a thumb just above the curve of her cheek, it’s the gentlest thing he’s ever done. A ghost of a touch. Enough to make her heart leap.
She doesn’t breathe.
The moment hovers.
Then, with quiet certainty, he leans forward and presses his lips to her forehead.
It’s soft. Barely there. But it lingers.
Rey stands very still.
Something inside her coils too tight.
Her breath hitches and her skin doesn’t know where to burn first.
When he steps back, she hasn’t moved. Not a single inch. Her breath catches in her chest and stays there, fluttering.
He says nothing.
And then, just as quietly, he turns and walks back through the kitchen door.
The room feels colder without him.
Rey touches her forehead like it might still hold the shape of his mouth. She doesn’t cry. Doesn’t smile. Just stares at the sink, at the glass still waiting to be dried, and wonders what on earth she’s done.
Notes:
Thank you for reading!
Twitter: @maltmilkdreams
Chapter 8: Chasing Me All Over Town
Notes:
this is entirely unbeta'd and I'm tired so I haven't yet done a full read-through
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Rey smooths the skirt of her dress, checking herself over one final time in the mirror of her bedroom, her hands clammy and her stomach turning.
In the days since Chrissy and Mrs. Anders had interrupted her afternoon with Mr. Solo, Rey learned a few things about herself, none of which she’s particularly proud of. For one thing, Rey learned that she is exceptionally capable of holding a grudge. Not like the quick, blazing anger that Rose shows whenever someone slights her or so much as mildly irritates her, but rather a slow, simmering kind of grudge. The kind that festers under the skin and steals from your ability to be reasonable. It’s sour and insistent, like fruit left too long on the counter and Rey feels bitter inside.
She spent the last few days replaying the afternoon in Mr. Solo’s kitchen until it blurred into something sharp and painful – the way Chrissy’s mother, a woman she has known all her life, had dismissed her with such ease, or how Chrissy had picked carelessly through Rey’s carefully prepared cookies, and the tightness in Mr. Solo’s voice when he'd spoken to her alone in the kitchen, his thumb ghosting over her cheek and his lips against her forehead.
She’s done something horribly wrong. She never should’ve been alone with him in the first place and now, her father would skin her alive if he knew she had been kissed alone in the home of an unmarried man.
For another, Rey learned she was prone to jealousy. It’s an ugly feeling, brittle and green, and it makes her skin itch in places she can’t reach. She’s seen Chrissy twice since that afternoon, both times outside the church, her blonde curls bouncing prettily as she laughed with other girls in their neatly pressed dresses. Rey had watched silently from the church steps, hands twisting in her lap, resenting how easily Chrissy seems to belong anywhere she goes, and how quickly she had settled herself beside Mr. Solo, sipping tea in his living room like she already owned it.
And then, finally, Rey learned she was a liar.
She had lied, first to herself, then to her mother, and now to Finn, who is standing nervously in her front doorway, shuffling his feet and smiling hopefully when as he asks if she’s ready for their date. Rey smiles back, says she’s excited, and tries to ignore the way her stomach twists uncomfortably around the edges of the lie.
Now, as they walk toward the mall, Finn chatters comfortably beside her about something she’s struggling to pay attention to – school maybe, or the upcoming baseball game. Rey feels the lie expand, growing heavier in her chest and harder to carry with every step, the disgusting weight of it making her collar hot and her dress feel two sizes too tight. She keeps her eyes trained on the sidewalk, smiling and nodding when it’s appropriate and watching the cracks in the concrete as they pass beneath her feet. She tries her hardest not to think of Mr. Solo’s quiet house, or the way he’d looked at her, or the slow, gentle press of his thumb on her cheek.
“You alright, Rey?” Finn asks suddenly, his voice laden with concern as he interrupts her thoughts.
Rey startles slightly, glancing up to meet his eyes a beat too quick. He looks worried, his brows creased and a careful smile softening the corners of his mouth. “You’re quiet today.”
“Oh,” she says, forcing a small laugh. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to. I’m just tired I think.”
Finn smiles at her, nudging her shoulder with his own. “That old Mr. Solo keeps you pretty late, huh?”
She feels sick.
“I think it’s real sweet what you’re doing for the church. He must be really struggling after… you know”
Finn shrugs his shoulders weakly and Rey swallows down the lump of guilt in her throat.
“You sure you still wanna get milkshakes?” he asks, slowing his steps a little, his warm brown eyes watching her closely. “We don’t have to if you’re not feeling up to it today.”
“No,” she forces out quickly, panic tightening in her chest at the thought of disappointing him or worse, the possibility that he might tell someone – Rose, her mother – that she’s acting strangely. “I want to go.”
Find nods, his expression brightening visibly. “Good, I was worried you’d changed your mind.”
Rey smiles again, smaller this time. “I didn’t.”
He holds open the heavy glass doors of the mall, and the cool air inside makes Rey shiver slightly, her skin prickling at the sudden change. Finn walks beside her, close but careful enough not to touch, his hands deep in his pockets as they pass the bright storefronts and idle clusters of teenagers. Rey finds herself painfully aware of how awkward and stiff her movements feel next to Finn’s easy, relaxed gait.
They reach the soda counter, a cheery little corner decorated with polished chrome and pastel-colored stools, and take seats in a booth at the far end, away from the bustle of customers; Rey perches in the soft seat, smoothing her skirt carefully and trying not to fidget.
Finn glances at the menu, eyebrows knitted in thought. “What flavor are you gonna get?”
“Chocolate, probably,” Rey says quietly, though she hasn’t given it any thought until just now.
“I think I’ll get strawberry,” Finn replies, smiling brightly at her as he sets the menu down in front of them. “Strawberry milkshakes always remind me of summer. My family always used to make them together after church. Mama likes extra whipped cream on hers and my sister always fights me for the cherries.”
He laughs lightly at the memory, the corners of his eyes crinkling softly. Rey smiles too, politely, but feels no warmth behind it. She tries to imagine Mr. Solo liking strawberry milkshakes and fails entirely. He wouldn’t like something sweet and pink, she decides. He probably drinks his coffee black and bitter.
Finn places their order, and the waitress brings them their milkshakes in tall glasses with red-striped straws. Rey takes a polite sip, the sweetness cloyingly thick on her tongue.
Finn, oblivious to her quiet unease, continues talking. He tells her about the baseball game he’s played the day before, describes the homework assignment he’d barely finished in time, laughs about something foolish his friends had done. Rey listens politely, smiling and laughing when he says something that tickles her, between glances at the clock on the wall and the people walking by. She wonders to herself if Mr. Solo ever comes to the mall, then scolds herself immediately for the thought.
After a moment of silence, Finn’s voice softens. “You know, I’m really glad you said yes, Rey. I didn’t think you would. Rose said you might be too busy, but Pastor Hux told me you’re a real sweet girl and that I should talk to you.”
“Rose doesn’t know everything,” Rey mutters softly, stirring her straw slowly though her milkshake.
Finn smiles gently, his eyes downcast as he shrugs. “I know. I guess… I wasn’t sure you would even notice me. I saw you on the first day and, forgive me if this is too forward, but I thought you were beautiful. You just always seem… I don’t know. Distracted maybe.”
Distracted.
Rey stills, the word echoing faintly in her ears. She can hear Mr. Solo’s voice clearly in her ears again, his calm, deep tone as he tells her she’s a distraction. That friends are a distraction. Finn is a distraction.
“I’m not distracted,” she replies quietly, defensively, tough she isn’t entirely sure which person she’s speaking to.
Finn looks surprised as her sharpness, his smile faltering. “I didn’t mean it like that. I’m sorry.”
“No,” Rey murmurs quickly, guilt pressing against her ribs. “I didn’t mean to snap at you. It’s just-“ She struggles for words, grasping at something neutral. “There’s been a lot on my mind lately. I’m just… tired.”
Finn nods, his gaze thoughtful and understanding, and Rey feels like she could throw up. He’s being so nice to her and she’s being awful and she can’t stop thinking about Mr. Solo, or what her Daddy would say if he knew what she’d done, or worse, if he knew what she thought about at night.
“Is it something you want to talk about?” Finn smiles, his hand reaching out to touch hers. “I’m always here to listen.”
“No,” Rey says quickly. Too quickly. Then softer, to cover it, “But thank you for asking.”
Finn watches her a moment longer, then nods again. He looks down at his half-finished milkshake, turning the glass slowly between his hands and Rey feels a pang of guilt; Finn has done nothing wrong. He’s been nothing but kind and cheerful. He’s polite, well-intentioned, and exactly the sort of boy her Mama always says girls should want. She should feel grateful that Finn has an interest, that he might like her. She should want to marry someone like Finn.
Maybe she does. Finn would be good for her.
“I’m glad we did this, Rey,” Finn says after a minute, smiling shyly, and Rey thinks she can almost see a blush on his cheeks.
“Me too,” she lies again, softly, swallowing another mouthful of chocolate, the taste bitter on her tongue.
When they leave the mall, Finn offers his arm in a polite gesture, one he probably learned from his father or Pastor Hux. Rey stares at it a moment, hesitating, then reluctantly slips her hand around his elbow. It feels strange, like touching something that belongs to somebody else.
They walk slowly, silently, and Rey watches the afternoon sun dip lower in the sky, casting long shadows over the sidewalk. Finn walks her all the way home, stopping at her gate with another hopeful smile.
“I had fun, Rey,” he says earnestly. “We could do it again sometime, if you’d like.”
She opens her mouth to respond, politely, neutrally, but is saved by her father stepping onto the porch, his expression stern and tight. Rey feels a pit of dread in her stomach.
“Reyline,” he says, his tone clipped. “Come inside, your mother needs your help. Urgently.”
Reys pulse quickens instantly, her stomach twisting sharply at her fathers’ words. Urgently. Her mind races through possibilities – has she done something wrong?
Finn looks startled, confused, but quickly nods politely at her father. “Good afternoon, sir.”
Her father merely inclines his head in acknowledgement before turning back inside, leaving Rey standing awkwardly beside Finn.
“Well, I suppose I’ll see you soon?” Finn asks hopefully, but Rey barely hears him over the pressure of her blood racing in her ears.
“Yes,” she mumbles distractedly. “Thanks for today, Finn. It was nice.”
She doesn’t wait for his reply, barely noticing the disappointment flickering briefly over his features. Instead, she hurries inside, heart hammering unevenly, already thinking about what awaits her inside the house and why her father had seemed so angry.
Finn fades from her thoughts before she even reaches the front door.
Rey’s heart is a heavy, frantic drum in her chest as she pushes open the front door, the familiar creak of hinges unusually loud in the still house. Immediately, she senses something off-kilter – an unsettling quiet that makes her skin prickle with anxious dread.
As she steps inside, she nearly collides with her mother, standing quietly near the staircase, her face pale and eyes rimmed her from hastily dried tears.
“Reyline, baby …” mother whispers urgently, stepping toward her as if to shield her from something.
“Mama?” Rey murmurs, her voice tight as the confusion settles into dread.
Her mother shakes her head as her eyes fill with tears and a terrified expression. “Reyline… your father received a call…”
An icy chill trickles down her spine and her brows furrow as she reaches for her mother. “What’s wrong? Did something happen?”
“Yes,” her mother rushes, her voice barely a whisper. “You were seen outside the mall… kissing that boy. They said it was… concerning,” Rey’s mother breaks quietly, gaze dropping to the floor and Rey notices the deep red mark on her mothers’ wrist as her own gaze follows. “You need to leave, honey. Your father-“ but the urgency in her mother’s voice is drowned immediately by the heavy footsteps of her father approaching swiftly from the kitchen.
He emerges, face contorted with rage, a vein pulsing sharply at his temple. “So,” he spits bitterly, “you’ve decided to disgrace this family publicly now, have you?”
Rey freezes, heart pounding painfully in her chest. “Daddy, I didn’t—”
“Don’t lie to me!” he roars, his voice shaking the walls. Rey’s mother flinches. “Pastor Hux saw you with that boy! Outside the mall, Reyline. Kissing.”
The shock hits her like a slap. “But Daddy, I wasn’t!” she pleads, confusion and panic settling heavy in her chest. “He’s lying, I swear it!”
“You disgraceful girl. Accusing the Pastor of lying?” he says coldly, his voice clipped and dangerously calm. “Did you really think you could behave like that and nobody would see?”
“Daddy,” Rey pleads urgently, stepping back instinctively as he advances. “It’s not true, I promise—”
“How dare you.” Her father’s eyes flash with anger as he steps closer, until his shadow falls over her. “Do you have any idea what this does to my name?”
“Ronald, please,” her mother says quietly, reaching toward him with a shaky hand, but he brushes her off roughly, eyes never leaving Rey.
“You are not to leave this house for a week, do you understand me?” he hisses through gritted teeth, grabbing Rey’s arm with a bruising grip. “Not to see Finn, or any other foolish boy you whore yourself out to.”
“Ronald, please-“
Her father whips around furiously with a finger pointed in her mother’s face.
“Shut your mouth right now,” he spits, and her mother winces, her eyes brimming with more tears. “I have no doubt you’ve been encouraging this behaviour.”
Rey struggles, turning her arm any way she can to try and escape from the grip on her arm but it’s no use. “Please, Daddy! I didn’t do anything!” she cries, struggling to wrench herself free, but his grip tightens painfully, pulling her closer into his side.
He turns back to Rey, dragging her toward the stairs and Rey tries to dig her heels into the carpet.
“Clearly, we’ve given you too much freedom. Clearly, you need reminding of your place.”
His hand raises sharply, and Rey barely has time to flinch before pain explodes across her cheek, bright and searing. Tears spring instantly, blurring her vision as she tries desperately to break away.
She presses her palm to her cheek, tears flooding unchecked down her face, words falling from her lips in broken fragments. "Please, Daddy—I promise—nothing happened, we just talked—"
“You will learn obedience,” he snarls, shaking her slightly as he strikes her again, this time across the shoulder. She stumbles backward, collapsing against the hallway table, knocking a vase to the floor where it shatters loudly. “And you will not disrespect me like that again.”
“Daddy, stop!” she cries, holding up an arm defensively, but he looms closer still, fury twisting his features.
“You will not disgrace this family again.”
He reaches for her again, and panic rises, sudden and uncontrollable. She scrambles backward, knocking over the side table, her mother's porcelain figurines shattering in a sharp crash. It’s enough—the brief distraction, the noise. His grip falters, and before she can think twice, Rey bolts toward the door, stumbling outside into the now heavy rain and darkness. Her mother cries out a strangled plea for her to come back, but Rey doesn’t stop. She pushes through the screen door and runs, heart racing so hard she thinks it might burst.
Her legs carry her blindly down the street, the pain in her cheek and shoulder nearly forgotten beneath the rush of adrenaline and fear as her shoes splash water up her legs. The world spins around her, dark houses and silent streets becoming nothing but blurs in the rain until she finds herself standing, breathless and trembling, at Mr. Solo’s doorstep.
Notes:
I hope you like it!!!!!
Twitter: @maltmilkdreams
Chapter Text
The door swings open and Rey wraps her arms around her body, her sobs dying down as Mr. Solo fills the entryway before her, his tall figure silhouetted against the dim glow behind him. The rain pours relentlessly, soaking her dress through and leaving her trembling, her chest hitching with quiet, hiccupping breaths that barely rise above the steady drum of the storm.
As she stands before him, she grows painfully aware of the bruises forming across her cheek and arms, deepening in angry shades of purple that sting with a burning heat that feels far too much like shame. She doesn’t know whether she wants him to see them or not, but it’s already too late.
Mr. Solo’s eyes narrow, his gaze dark and assessing as it sweeps across her battered form, down the wet tendrils of hair sticking to her flushed cheeks, lingering on the way her dress presses indecently against her skin before settling finally on the welt marring her cheek.
The intensity of his gaze strikes her harder than her father’s hand had. It isn’t outrage, not exactly. It’s colder, steadier, as though his anger has been drawn tight and pulled under control until it becomes a blade rather than a flame. She shrinks beneath it, smaller than she’s ever felt, and for a dreadful moment she wonders if he’s angry with her for coming. For disturbing him at this hour. For needing anything at all. What would he want with her anyway?
“Rey,” he says at last, his voice low and even, though the twitch in his jaw betrays him. “Come inside. Now.”
He does not wait for her to move. His large hand reaches forward, firm at her waist as he pulls her into the shelter of the hallway with a careful urgency, as though mindful of the bruises even as he guides her. His eyes flicker once toward the street, eyes sharp and searching, before the door is pulled closed behind them with a finality that cuts her off from the world outside.
She stumbles past the threshold, shivering so hard her knees nearly give out, but before she can speak, she’s pulled against him with a firm hand on the small of her back.
Her body stiffens, the air seemingly leaving her lungs as she’s cradled against the warmth of his body. She’s never been this close to him before. She’s certain she’s not supposed to be, either.
He’s dressed much as he always is; slacks pressed, sleeves rolled neatly at the forearms. But tonight there is no silver watch at his wrist, no precise knot at his collar. His tie hangs loose, tugged half undone, almost matching the way his hair falls as though he’s run a hand through it too many times - with stress or restless hands - and the imperfection unsettles her more than his severity.
They stand silently in the dim hallway, water dripping steadily from her clothes and forming a dark pool at their feet. The sight makes her stomach clench with guilt. She should pull away, apologise, clean it up. Mama always tells her that men don’t like girls who make a mess.
But to her confusion, Mr. Solo shows no sign of noticing. In fact, his attention remains locked entirely on her as his dark eyes scan her face, her arms, and harden further with each passing second.
The silence stretches, filled only by the uneven rhythm of their breathing, and Rey clings to it as if it might ground her. She wants to be closer to him – to feel his warmth and the grace of his acceptance. She wants to feel wanted.
She shifts on trembling legs, pulling her arms tighter around her frame as though she might fold herself into something smaller, less offensive. For a moment, she stays that way – cheeks burning, listening to the steady, impassive beat of his heart. She should step back, should remember her place. And yet-
Some restless current stirs inside her. Not rebellion, not really, but something close to yearning.
Inch by inch, she leans more of her weight into him, nudging herself closer as carefully as she dares, like a kitten edging toward the comfort of an older cat, cautious and wary, testing whether she might be tolerated.
Finally, her forehead rests against the hard plane of his sternum with the smallest of tilts, the soaked fabric of his shirt damp beneath her skin and she stiffens immediately, shame rising sharp and hot. She can hear the steady thud of his heart, so strong, so calm compared to the erratic flutter of her own.
Her breath catches in her throat, already half-bracing for the reprimand that will most certainly come. She knows deep inside that she will be pushed away - shoved aside and called foolish girl for thinking she might be wanted by somebody. Most of all him.
Yet she doesn’t stop herself. Doesn’t pull back from his chest like she should.
For a long moment, they remain perfectly still, the only sound in the hallway being the steady drum of the rain above. She doesn’t blink, her heart rattling unevenly beneath her ribs, her whole body braced for the moment his voice cuts sharp and cold through the air – waiting to be told she’s no longer welcome and never was.
But he doesn’t.
Instead, his hand rises, large and deliberate as it cups the back of her head, sliding through the wet tangles of her hair with a slow, measured stroke. The motion stills her trembling, draws the air back into her lungs. She exhales shakily, her eyelids fluttering closed as she sinks into him, feeling the steady, powerful rhythm of his heartbeat beneath damp fabric. His thumb strokes just behind her ear, feather-light, and the sensation startles a shiver down her spine, heat pooling in her stomach despite everything.
The silence thickens, shame biting at the edges of the comfort she takes from him.
At last, he shifts, his hand still at her back as he guides her deeper into the house. The soft glow of the living room greeting her as he eases her down onto the couch before crouching in front of her, knees bending slowly until his face is level with hers.
She flinches as his hand raises, embarrassment rising in her throat as he tilts her chin to look at him with a thumb and forefinger.
“Reyline,” Mr. Solo says at last, his eyes dark and lips drawn into a thin line. “Who did this to you?” he asks softly, his voice calm as he uses the same hand to tilt her head from one side to the other while he takes in the extent of her injuries.
He doesn’t blink when he asks it, holding her chin just high enough that she can neither hide nor look past him, the angle forcing her to meet the question full in the face.
“My… Da-“ she tries her hardest to whisper through hiccupping breaths, focusing on his warm brown eyes to stop her own from glazing over and her mind shutting down. She’s safe now, she just wishes her body would catch up.
“Your father.” Mr. Solo sighs, cupping her jaw in his warm hand.
She nods, and his nod mimics her own as her throat closes around the explanation.
“He-he was angry.”
The muscle in his jaw moves once. “Why.”
It isn’t a question, and Rey can feel the pressure of his thumb where it steadies her.
“Someone told him I kissed Finn,” she hiccups, her voice betraying her as her breathing begins to speed up, the name feeling small and stupid in her mouth. “I didn’t, I swear, Mr. Solo,” she rushes, as though trying to defend herself from an accusation he never made – as though the thought of him believing her matters most in the world.
His hand doesn’t loosen. “I know.”
Two words, even and unhurried, and the floor under her shifts an inch closer to level. She exhales shakily, hating how grateful she feels.
He studies her another beat, then, slides his palm from her jaw to her cheek - not to comfort, she realises, but to examine. His gaze follows the path of his fingers: clinical and unflinching as he turns her head one way, then the other, measuring the swelling with the rough pads of his fingertips.
She lets her eyelids flutter closed, the weight of her head growing heavier as he holds her in his hand. She wants him to swallow her whole – to let her live inside and never worry about a thing except him for the rest of her life.
“Does it hurt here?” he murmurs, his thumb pressing just beneath the ridge of her cheekbone.
She flinches before she can stop herself, the sharp sting ricocheting behind her eyelid. “A little,” she whispers.
“A lot,” he corrects quietly.
He lowers his hand to her wrist where another bruise blooms; his thumb circling the mark without quite touching it, and everything in her goes very still. “And here.”
She nods, her eyes opening slowly as they prickle with shame. She wants to run and hide, or perhaps hide herself within his arms, or even just disappear entirely.
He looks down at the thin, damp dress clinging to her skin, and she shifts on the couch as she’s reminded of the way it is now tight in all the worst places, ensuring she can do nothing but shake from the cold.
He looks back up at her, except this time his expression is set, his lips a thin line as though he’d made a choice.
“Wait here,” he tells her, before standing and leaving the room.
The loss of his nearness leaves a cold pocket in the air, and Rey finds herself listening intently to the ordinary sounds of a drawer opening – a cupboard door.
The house creaks as the rain changes its rhythm.
Mr. Solo returns, a folded cloth and a small brown bottle held in his hands as he kneels again without ceremony, like a physician rather than a neighbour, and pours a clear liquid onto the cloth.
Rey’s nose scrunches in discomfort as the scent of antiseptic cuts cleanly through the warm smell of his house.
“Look at me,” he says, and she does.
The first touch of the cool cloth forces her breath through gritted teeth, the sting making her body tense without instruction.
He works carefully, not lingering over any place long enough to make her flinch twice, though not skipping any place that needs attention. When she winces, he adjusts the pressure a fraction, but he does not apologise, and Rey finds within the tenderness of his hands a language she didn’t know she craved.
How could this man threaten to wrestle her over his lap and leave marks on her skin, and yet hold her with the care of someone aiding a wounded butterfly?
Mr. Solo confuses her.
“You didn’t kiss Finn,” he says simply, as if reciting a fact already settled. “You wouldn’t do that.”
Something tight and ridiculous pulls in her chest. “No,” she says too quickly. “I wouldn’t.”
His mouth barely moves, his gaze focused intently on dabbing the cloth over the broken skin beside her eye. “I know what kind of girl you are.”
She tries to swallow and can’t.
He moves the cloth to the corner of her mouth where her skin feels hot and stretched, his thumb returning to steady her chin again.
“I’m sure Hux simply mistook what he saw,” Mr. Solo murmurs quietly, his thumb stroking her skin. “And your father believed him, didn’t he?”
Rey nods shakily, but something snags in her chest. Her brows pull together and she tilts her head faintly, confusion flickering through the fog.
“But… how did you know?” her voice cracks, breath catching. “I never said it was Pastor-“
“Your mother called,” he cuts across her, running a hand through his dark hair before lowering himself nearer, a warm palm settling heavily on her knee. The gesture steadies her, anchors her somehow as his tone softens just enough to soothe. “She was worried about where you were.”
Rey’s lips part. Oh. That makes sense. Mama had been distraught when she’d arrived back, her eyes red, her voice shaking. The bruises would’ve been obvious to anyone. Yes. Of course Mama had called him.
Mr. Solo’s jaw tightens, a muscle twitching faintly beneath the skin as if bearing the thought with difficulty. Then, his hands return to her face, tilting her chin again with precise care. His fingers are warm against the cold bloom of her bruise, and Rey basks in the tenderness of his touch, letting her body sink deeper into the couch.
“It probably wasn’t Pastor Hux, anyway, sir,” Rey mumbles, embarrassed by the pettiness in her tone, ashamed even as she says it. But the thought slips out before she can stop it.
Mr. Solo tilts his head as he looks at her, studying her with the faintest crease between his thick brows. For a heartbeat she swears she catches the corner of his mouth shifting. Smiling. Almost.
“What makes you say that, sweet girl?” his voice softens, coaxing. The endearment startles her, warmth blooming low in her stomach before she gathers the sense to resist it.
“I bet it was Chrissy Anders and her stupid meddling,” she grumbles, her voice catching with another hiccup.
His gaze lingers and Rey blinks, looking down at her lap, though not before she catches the sight of it again – a small flicker of satisfaction in his lips. He nods, as though confirming a private note.
He rises, placing the used cloth on the low coffee table.
“Let’s get you dried off, sweetheart,” Mr. Solo murmurs finally, and Rey finds herself watching him cross to the small kitchen she’s so familiar with, feeling absurdly bereft until the sight of him turns that feeling into something else – her attention catching on the loosened tie, the rolled sleeves, the line of his back as he reaches into the storage cupboard to pull out a towel.
The small, domestic sounds – the faucet, the click of the stove, the mild hiss of hot water – build a kind of hush that makes the home feel entirely sealed, as if the rain had moved them to some other world.
She looks down at the crescent of moisture on the couch that her dress had left, and presses her palm into it, as if to erase the proof of her intrusion. She tugs her lower lip into her mouth, testing it between her teeth as she worries if Mr. Solo finds irritation in the mess she’s leaving behind.
“Leave it,” he says without looking, and the words settle her hand.
He returns with a towel and a single cup of tea, setting it in her hands before taking the armchair adjacent to the couch – angled just enough that his knee nearly touches her own.
Rey watches him from the corner of her eyes as he reaches for the glass decanter that sits on the table beside him, half-filled with an amber liquid that he pours into a nearby glass. She watches as he brings it to his lips, plush and full, and exhales a deep breath, his eyes closing as he swallows the drink before opening again to settle on Rey.
She looks away instantly, focusing on the steam that curls between them; faint wisps rising from the surface of the cup in her hands as Rey shifts herself uncomfortably into the edge of the couch, both palms wrapped tightly around the porcelain as if the heat might seep into her bones.
Mr. Solo remains still, a shadowed figure in his chair with one elbow resting against the armrest while his eyes stay fixed on her, watching intently as she brings the cup to her lips.
The heat of the tea burns the split at her lip in a clean way that makes her eyes fill with tears and she blinks them back hard.
“You’re shivering,” he observes, not unkindly. “It’s late.” His voice softens at the edges, but something within it stays firm. “You’ll sleep here tonight,” he says at last, the words quiet yet carrying the weight of a decision already made.
She tightens her fingers around the cup, dread rising in her chest as she swallows against the lump in her throat. “I don’t want to-”
“You’ll stay,” he interrupts. “Your body is bruised and you’re still trembling. I’m not letting you out of my sight, Reyline.”
She nods quickly, not daring to argue again.
Relief knots in her chest, combined with something that feels a lot like fear and is decidedly impossible to untangle. The idea of not returning home leaves her feeling breathless, half-guilty and half-thrilled.
The storm outside beats against the roof and windows, the sound filling the silence, and yet inside the living room it feels close, hushed.
The lamp casts a warm glow across Mr. Solo’s shoulder and jaw, catching the slight sheen of damp hair near his temple as he tilts his head back to take another sip from the glass engulfed in his large hand. She finds herself watching him – the way the lump in his throat bobs as he draws the liquid from the glass, the way he inhales through his teeth at the sharpness of the alcohol, but mostly the way that one single droplet of sweat traverses the line of his throat to dash beneath his collar.
She wants to follow it.
Stop it.
She shakes her head, turning her gaze back to the liquid in her cup to keep from staring at him.
“Drink,” he says after a pause. The command is so quiet it barely rises above the hiss of the kettle still cooling on the stove, but she obeys regardless, sipping until the tea is gone.
The knock comes suddenly – oppressive against the quiet.
Rey jolts, her heart seizing in her chest.
Mr. Solo sighs, rising with an unhurried grace as though he had expected it. He pauses, his dark eyes flick once to her. “Stay here,” he tells her. “Do not move.”
Rey freezes, her body going rigid at the firmness of the request, as though her body will simply not allow her to disobey it.
The cup shakes in her trembling hands as she listens to the sound of his heavy footsteps receding down the hall, steady and unhurried, until the front door groans open, as if it too were protecting the peace within the house.
“Solo, I apologize for disturbing you at this hour,” her father’s careful voice floats through to the living room where she sits on the couch. It’s clear that he’s trying for politeness, but it comes out tight and frayed at the edges. “I’ve come to collect Reyline.”
Rey’s grip tightens around the cooling porcelain, her whole body going cold at the sound of her father.
“I’m afraid Reyline will be staying here tonight, Ronald,” Mr. Solo responds firmly, his voice calm and unyielding. “Given the circumstances, I believe it’s safer for everyone this way.”
A brief and tense pause stretches, the brutal summer rain growing heavier against the roof. A moment passes before her father replies, his tone clipped and uncomfortable. “With all due respect, Mr. Solo, this is a family matter. It would be best handled privately. I’m sure you understand, of course.”
“Oh, I understand you concerns for privacy, Ronald,” Mr. Solo says softly, the words edged with contempt. “I also understand that privacy is no longer relevant when your daughter arrives half-drowned and beaten at my doorstep. Given the extent of her injuries, I question your ability to manage these family matters appropriately.”
Another heavy silence looms in the air, longer this time and riddled with some sort of masculine tension that Rey doesn’t quite understand. Still, she can almost feel the tension radiating through the walls and she lets her fingers resume absentmindedly picking at each other.
She pictures her father on the other side of the door, his hair disheveled and his face beet-red, jaw tight in anger reigned only by the fear of consequence and scandal.
“You have my word it won’t happen again,” her father attempts weakly, desperation creeping into his tone as he stumbles his words. “I assure you-“
“I certainly hope not,” Mr. Solo interrupts, the subtle threat unmistakeable beneath his controlled demeanor. “Your position at Solo Industries relies heavily on trust and judgement. Consider this carefully. I would if I were you.”
Another long silence. The storm presses in louder, and Rey holds her breath, straining to hear the outcome.
Finally, her father’s voice comes back, clipped and bitter. “I understand, Mr. Solo. Thank you for your… concern. Please take care of her.”
“I intend to.”
The door closes firmly.
Rey’s whole body sags. She stares into the empty cup in her hands, the ring of steam gone and her finger white-knuckled around the porcelain. When she eventually dares to loop up, Mr. Solo has already returned, his face composed, though his jaw still bears the tension of the exchange.
He reaches over to the table beside him, sliding a cigarette between his lips from a small metal case and bringing the lighter up to it. She watches intently as his cheeks hollow, the points of his jaw becoming sharp for a moment while the tip glows red as he sucks in a breath, before blowing it out into a neat puff of smoke. She likes the scent, she thinks to herself. It makes her feel good.
He sips from his glass, holding the cigarette loosely between two fingers, and Rey stops herself from succumbing to the heady mix of smoke and him.
His eyes study her closely, taking a long sip from his glass and setting it down on the table. “You’re shaking, Rey.”
She straightens suddenly. “I… sorry,” she whispers, cheeks flushing hot.
“You don’t need to apologise.” He leans slightly closer, taking another deep drag from his cigarette, his voice lowering gently. “Come here.”
She hesitates only briefly before obeying, moving around the table to stand nervously beside him. He extends a hand toward her and she places hers into it without hesitation this time, her breath catching at the steady warmth of his palm.
“It’s settled,” he says simply, taking another drag from the cigarette as his gaze sweeps over her. “You’ll stay.”
She nods meekly, small and quick, her throat too tight for words. She’s never slept in a house without other grown ups – only a handful of times at Rose’s house, though her parents are always home.
Mama must be worried sick. What is Rose going to say if she finds out she slept at Mr. Solo’s house? Alone.
He takes one more drag before snuffing out the glow in a small glass ashtray next to his now empty glass of liquor, before sighing to himself.
“I didn’t want to have to do it this way, Rey,” he exhales, and Rey tilts her head curiously. He must feel uncomfortable, and suddenly Rey feels like a terrible person for forcing him into this situation – turning up at his door and making him let her stay here, in his home.
She swallows hard despite the lump in her throat, nodding slowly, her voice barely audible. “I trust you.”
His eyes soften slightly, a quiet satisfaction crossing his features at her admission. “Always such a good girl.”
Her breath catches slightly, her heart fluttering wildly in her chest. Finn didn’t make her feel this way...
“Come with me,” he says as he pulls himself to his feet, and Rey smiles to herself when his hand doesn’t part from hers as he guides her from the room, the weight of his presence steadying her steps as he leads her up the stairs.
Rey’s breath leaves her in a quiet, uneven exhale as Mr. Solo guides her toward the guest room, his hand clasping hers in a gesture that feels simultaneously protective and possessive. Each gentle pressure of his fingers against her wrist sends tiny jolts of warmth through her, warmth she knows she shouldn't allow herself to feel—not now, not here, and certainly not with him.
He stops at the doorway of the softly lit room, his gaze deep and unreadable.
The room is neat, the bed crisply made, the faint scent of starch and cedar lingering in the air.
“You’ll sleep here,” he says – it isn’t a suggestion, but an instruction, given with the same firm assurance as before. “It’s quiet. You’ll be left alone.”
Rey nods quickly, her eyes dropping to the folded bundle laid carefully at the foot of the bed. A pale pink nightgown, neatly pressed, as though waiting for her arrival.
Her lips part, confused.
“They were my wife’s,” he says smoothly, and Rey feels a pang of jealousy in her chest. “They should fit.”
Rey’s fingers hover above the fabric, her heart twisting at the thought of putting on something from his home, something that carries his approval.
The fabric is silk with a detailed lace hem, and far more grown-up than anything Mama has ever bought her.
She feels special. Mature.
“Thank you, Mr. Solo…” she whispers as her fingers ghost the fabric. “For going to such trouble. I can leave before you wake, if you’d like-“
“No need,” his deep voice comes from behind her, his large frame filling the doorway. “Change,” he says gently, his tone soft. “You’ll be more comfortable.”
Her chest tightens at the instruction, but she finds herself nodding, her hand brushing the folded nightgown once more, as if touching something forbidden – something she has no right to touch.
She wonders if he likes pink. She doesn’t own much pink.
Pink is good.
He hesitates just long enough for Rey’s heart to stutter painfully in her chest before he nods once and steps away, his footsteps echoing faintly down the hallway. Rey remains frozen in place a moment longer, heart racing wildly, torn between the undeniable urge to follow him and the aching need to retreat into safety.
Finally, she closes the door behind her and leans back against it with a shaky sigh. Her heart pounds loudly in the silence, her body still buzzing with the lingering warmth of his touch and the quiet intensity of his gaze.
After a long moment spent catching her breath and stilling her thoughts, she returns to the nightgown.
She moves toward it slowly, her eyes resting on the bundle laid carefully across the foot of the mattress. The silk gleams faintly in the dim light of the lamp, pale pink and delicate as a spider’s web. Rey touches it with hesitant fingers, startled by how smooth it feels against her skin.
Her hand catches on something stiff and sharp within the folds, and she frowns, tugging it free.
A small square of cardboard.
A price tag.
Her breath hitches, the sound loud in the quiet of the bedroom. She stands very still, the tag pinched between unsteady fingers, staring at the neat print as her mind scrambles to explain it – to chase away the implication. And yet – it settles too neatly into place.
A pang of guilt rushes through her chest, though dulled quickly by another feeling – thicker, heavier, impossible to swallow down. A warmth blooms in her stomach, smug and secret, that feels wrong for an unmarried girl to hold, and yet thrilling all the same.
Her lips part, the faintest smile tugging at her mouth as she tears the tag loose and sets it aside.
Her dress slips from her shoulders with a harsh slap as the wet fabric hits the floor, forgotten. She lifts the gown, letting the silk cascade over her frame.
It clings differently than cotton, whispering down her skin until she feels wrapped in something fragile and decadent, as though she’s stepping into a role she was not meant to play.
Crawling beneath the covers, Rey presses her cheek against the cool pillow, the faint scent of cedar and smoke coiling around her and whispering to her in secret. Her heart beats quick with nerves, but the corners of her mouth curve upward anyway, unwilling and victorious.
She tells herself she ought to feel ashamed – that Mama would faint if she knew, that no proper girl should sleep in the house of an unmarried man. And yet she sinks into the sheets with a soft, certain pleasure.
Sleep comes slowly with a smile tugging at her lips.
Notes:
Honestly, I wrote this while drinking wine and making dinner for my boyfriend and I feel like I channeled the vibe here. Let me know in brutal honesty if I made any mistakes!
As always! Enjoy!
I rushed to write this because Sandscorpio sent me some really nice comments. Comments keep me motivated! (hate to say it but nothing motivates me like praise guys)
Chapter 10: A Higher Service
Summary:
this one is absolutely massive and written with jetlag and fits of writing on a plane, but enjoy!
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Rey lies awake long before the house rises, before the light even thinks about the windows. The heavy storm has gentled to the faint dripping of water falling from the trees and tiled-roofs, and she lies for a moment and listens. No pipes, no floorboards creaking under her father’s steps or her mother’s cheerful humming in the kitchen, only the dripping of water and the steady tick of a clock that must sit somewhere on the landing outside.
The sheets smell faintly of cedar and something smokier beneath, and she presses her cheek against the pillow just to breathe it in again, as though she could fill her lungs with pieces of him.
It takes her a moment to remember where she is. Not in her narrow bed at home where Mama fusses and Daddy silences. Here, it feels different.
She looks down at herself, fingertips ghosting the hem of the pale silk nightgown as it slips cool over her knees, a sensation so foreign it makes her shiver. Mama never bought her anything half so fine. The lace at the hem is grown-up, too grown for her, and the fabric whispers whenever she moves.
She should feel guilty. Should feel ashamed for taking up more space than she should do in his home. But instead, she smooths the material over her thighs again, over and over, until the slide of silk almost feels like a secret. The thought sits heavy and sweet in her stomach in a way that makes her lips twitch with a smile.
Before she can think to stop herself, her mind begins to wander as she ghosts her fingers over the delicate material at her thighs. She lets herself wonder, perhaps, what his hands might feel like against her skin – she has no doubt one of his large palms would engulf the width of her thigh, holding her in his hand as if she were a doll.
He’d be warm, his voice deep and scent thick, and she presses her face into the pillow and inhales a breath as she lets her fingertips edge higher up her thigh, the material beginning to bunch at her hip.
For a second her mind goes blurry and fogged at the edges, and she buries her face further into the pillow as if somehow that might hide the sin of her wandering hands.
She should pray. She should apologise profusely for turning up at Mr. Solo’s door and promise that she’ll be better - good.
She rolls onto her back with a sigh and stares up at the ceiling, forcing herself to focus on anything else.
The nightgown was new, that much was clear, and she wonders to herself why Mr. Solo lied.
Her stomach turns with the thought of him purchasing the dress for someone else – someone he might be interested in. A woman more grown than herself. Someone who smells sweet like roses and doesn’t wear charm bracelets. Someone pretty like Chrissy Anders.
She lets herself daydream despite herself, toying with the outrageous notion of him going to the store with Rey in mind, selecting pink from all the colours and folding it neatly as though he could already see her wearing it.
Her cheeks flush at her own foolishness. It is silly to think he would trouble himself so much for her, sillier to think he might look at her beyond just the sight of a useless girl who bakes him cookies from a box. She squeezes her eyes shut, buries her face in the pillow with a sigh and tries to beat the thought away. She is only Reyline Niima, clumsy and half-grown, no prettier than the girls in town. Besides, he’d have had no inclination that she was even going to be in his home past nightfall, let alone going so far as to purchase something especially.
And yet- he let her stay. He told her she was a good girl. He gave her this gown.
The house creaks softly around her, settling against the last of the storm, and her heart leaps as though it might be his footsteps on the landing. It isn’t.
What would Mama say if she could see her? Mama would fuss. Rose would tease her, and the ladies at church would whisper. A proper girl doesn’t sleep under a man’s roof without her parents. A proper girl doesn’t pull on a nightgown that smells of silk and cedar and think of herself as special because of it.
Rey pulls the sheet higher, tucking it under her chin, her face warm. She wants to be proper. She wants to be good. She wants him to think of her as both.
Her stomach flutters as she pictures the day ahead: he will expect her to go to church with him. The congregation will see her at his side, and the thought makes her sick with nerves. She is a good girl, he told her so.
Her breath catches and she pushes herself upright, blinking at the crisp, neat guest room. Everything feels too orderly, as though her very presence has already left it dishevelled. The folded quilt at the end of the bed is half-slipped, the pillowcase bears the faintest crease where she tossed in her sleep. Heat prickles her skin at the thought of him noticing.
The house is still silent, and Rey decides she cannot stay in bed another moment.
It occurs to her that she could crawl back beneath the sheets, wait until he calls for her. But some stubborn, eager part of her aches to prove herself useful, to show him that she can do more than sit trembling in his living room with a cup of tea clutched in her hands. She wants him to find her busy, already filling the quiet of his home with something he needs.
Yes. He’ll like that, she thinks. He’s been kind to her, despite her recent bouts of defiance. She should do something nice.
Her mind drifts back to the cheerful lady on the radio from her very first visit: “A good housekeeper never waits to be asked. Anticipate your family’s needs. They’ll feel safe when everything is in its proper place.”
She slips her feet to the floor, toes curling against the polished boards, and resolves to be useful – to be good – before he wakes.
So, she creeps down the hall and into the kitchen, tying her hair back with a ribbon she finds folded on the counter – she knows it isn’t hers, but she slips it over her braid anyway.
The pantry yields eggs, bread, and a jar of preserves. More than enough to work with, she concludes.
Rey sets them out carefully, arranging the breakfast table with the same neatness she’s seen her mother use when company is expected. She cracks the eggs clumsily – one spills too wide, another runs clear before thickening in the pan – but she hopes to herself that he won’t mind too much. He’s a man, and Mama tells her that men hardly look closely at such things. Still, she stirs and arranges them until the scent rises warmly into the air, the windows steaming in the center as she cooks.
Rey fumbles with the eggs, stirring too fast at first, then too slow, the mixture catching in pale clumps at the edges of the pan and soon enough, her fingers are trembling and she’s making mistakes. Silly mistakes that’ll surely make him think her useless.
The bread toasts slower than she expects, and she burns her fingers putting the slices back into the toaster for a second time. By the time she spreads the jam, her heart is already racing, each moment fuelled less by hunger than by the thought of him walking in and seeing her there.
And then he does.
She doesn’t hear him cross the floor until his presence settles directly behind her. Then, the warmth of him presses close, his breath stirring the hair at her temples as his head dips – heavy and warm – to rest against her shoulder.
Her whole body goes taut and she dares not move. Hardly dares to breathe as a restless flutter seizes in her chest, at once thrilling and shameful. She’s never been this close to a man who isn’t her father. Hasn’t even really been this close to him at all.
His scent is stronger now, she notices, and she inhales a little deeper on the next breath, her head swimming with the redolent aroma of cedar and smoke. She keeps her body rigid as she breathes him in, refusing to let it give away the secrets she herself doesn’t want to face.
“Fold,” he says softly, his voice pitched low, roughened and thick from sleep. His hand doesn’t move, but the command seems to guide her wrist all the same. “Don’t stir. Lift and fold.”
She obeys instantly, clumsy but eager, watching the eggs crease and fall into themselves just as he told her.
“Good girl,” he murmurs, his body bent almost in half to rest against her shoulder as he watches her cook, and Rey feels a swirl of heat pool deep in her tummy at the praise.
He straightens again, the weight of him disappearing as he crosses to the table and draws out a chair.
For the briefest of moments Rey stands, rooted at the stove, her hands still trembling and every nerve in her body alive with the memory of his head against her shoulder.
Rey risks a glance toward him as she plates the food, only to find his gaze not on his own plate, but on her. More precisely, on the pale pink silk that slips against her knees whenever she moves.
“You’re still in the nightgown,” he remarks, the words drawn slow as if carrying a meaning she’s unsure of.
Heat surges to Rey’s cheeks, her mouth opening before she can think better of it. “My dress, sir – it was still wet from last night. I… I didn’t want to put it back on and make a mess. I didn’t mean to-” The words trip over themselves, tumbling out in a hurry to excuse.
His expression remains unreadable, though his jaw shifts as though considering her explanation. He leans back slightly in his chair, the faintest sound rumbling in his chest as he looks her over again – not quite a hum, neither approval, but enough to make her pulse quicken.
“It suits you,” he says simply, as if noting a fact that does not require her reply. Then, after a pause: “I left a dress for you in the guest room. You’ll change into it before church.”
Her lips part, heart stumbling. He somehow thought of this already, before she even woke. The knowledge burns through her with a strange mixture of guilt and pride. She’s burdening him. She’ll make an excuse to leave after service. Daddy might’ve calmed down by now anyway, she thinks with a lump in her throat.
“Yes, Mr. Solo,” she whispers, the words catching as though they’ve lodged somewhere too deep.
They eat quietly, the clink of silverware against porcelain filling the space between them. He doesn’t chatter or fill the silence in the way she’s used to from her parents at home. But rather, he eats with a slow precision, eyes lifting to her now and then, and each glance makes her throat tighten around her food. When she manages half her plate, his gaze lingers a moment longer before dipping back to his own. She exhales softly, relief trickling through her chest as though she’s passed some unspoken test.
By the time they finish, he takes her plate from her and offers to tidy the kitchen while she gets ready for the morning’s church service, and when she creeps into the guest room, the dress he promised lies waiting across the bedspread, smooth and pale atop the white quilt. Atop the dress sits a pair of crisp white gloves and matching white socks with a delicate frill at the top.
It’s pink. A soft, feminine pink – the sort she never buys for herself out of fear that she could never pull off something so girlish and pretty. Her hand hovers above it before daring to touch. The fabric is finer than anything she has ever owned, light beneath her fingers with a fitted waist and a skirt that swishes out fuller than her plain Sunday dresses. She holds it against herself in the mirror, turning this way and that with a smile on her face and a flutter in her chest as she watches it swing and float. Her breath catches, her cheeks almost matching the colour of the fabric, and somehow, she feels both womanly and like a little girl all in the same moment.
It makes her look older, she thinks, though the flush in her cheeks betrays the child she still is.
She removes her nightgown, folding it once more at the end of the bed before slipping the new dress over her head and smoothing the fabric down her hips, adjusting the bodice with trembling hands. The hem falls perfectly, grazing the tops of her calves, the shade warming her pale skin in a way that feels almost indecent. It’s ever so slightly longer than she’s used to, but she finds that the length flattering on her long legs, the tight waist drawing attention to her figure without revealing her skin. She turns sideways, then forward again, tugging the sash until it cinches perfectly. For a moment she only stares at herself, the pink flaring against her now flushed chest, the girl in the mirror a stranger who might not just be the help.
A dangerous feeling twists in her stomach and she refuses to name it. She’s wearing what he placed for her, and the thought is intoxicating in a way that isn’t right for a girl of her age.
And yet, she bites her lip, taking one last look at herself before gathering the courage to leave the room.
He is waiting in the foyer, coat already in hand, tie knotted now where it had been loose before. His eyes lift as she appears at the top of the stairs, scanning her in a long unreadable sweep. For a dreadful moment she fears she has disappointed him, that the pink is wrong, that she looks foolish, and she tugs on the hem of her dress with nervous fingers.
Then his gaze returns to her face, a quirk at the corner of his lips that she is entirely unable to ignore. “You make a fine young lady, Reyline,” he says simply, his voice still thick at the edges from his slumber, though softer now.
Rey swallows the rush of relief, nodding quickly and resisting the urge to wipe her clammy hands on the skirt of her dress.
“Thank you, Mr. Solo.”
She bows her head like Mama taught her to when offered a compliment.
He nods once, looking her over a last time before gesturing to the door. “Come, or we’ll be late.”
The ride is short, and yet the walk from his car across the gravel to the church steps is the longest of Rey’s life. The pink skirt swishes around her legs, drawing eyes she cannot ignore. She feels them burning against her – the congregation gathering, the ladies with their hats, the men with their polished shoes – and suddenly she feels as though all eyes are on her.
Her hand twitches at her side, wishing it could cling to something stronger than she is.
And then, before they even reach the steps toward the church, Mrs. Anders intercepts them like a woman on a mission - Chrissy trailing at her side, blonde curls bouncing as though to catch the sun, her yellow dress carefully pressed.
“Why, Mr. Solo,” Mrs. Anders smiles brightly, though her sharp eyes dart between him and Rey with pointed interest, her lips pinched tight at the corners. “What a surprise to see you arriving together this morning.” The older woman looks between the two of them once more before giving Rey a sweep from head to toe, a question lingering in the air.
“I-I came by to bring Mr. Solo some cookies before service,” Rey blurts with her best smile plastered on an uncertain face. “Clumsy me forgot how late it was in the morning, ma’am, and so Mr. Solo offered me a ride so that I wouldn’t be late.”
The excuse sounds thin even to her own ears, but it is out, too fast to be recalled. She grips her gloves tighter, praying it will be enough.
Mr. Solo doesn’t contradict her, doesn’t even move to reply, but instead lowers his gaze toward her, steady and unreadable except for the faintest twitch at the corner of his mouth and the quiet flicker in his eyes. Satisfaction. She did good. The smallest sign that she has done exactly what he wanted without needing to be told.
She made him happy.
She wants to do it again.
Mrs. Anders tilts her head, lips pressed into a line that is almost a smile, almost a smirk. “How dutiful of you, Reyline. And how kind of Mr. Solo to correct your tardiness,” she says at last, though her eyes flick once more over Rey’s pink dress as if measuring every seam.
Beside her, Chrissy dips into a shallow curtsy, beaming at Mr. Solo with a ponytail so tight her eyelids look painfully taut. “Good morning, sir.” Her eyes cut sideways at Rey, assuming, and Rey fights the urge to roll her eyes at the older girl.
Mrs. Anders does not wait to be invited to speak with him, but rather, steps forward with a brightness sharpened to a point, one gloved hand lighting on Mr. Solo’s sleeve as if she’s catching a coat from falling.
“Mr. Solo, you simply must join me and Chrissy to see the flower arrangements the ladies have put together this week – Pastor Hux says you’re the only one with a sensible eye for proportion,” she declares, turning her smile into a shepherd’s crook that pulls him off the path and toward the low border of hydrangeas along the courtyard walk.
Chrissy follows at her mother’s hip, the bow at the back of her dress bobbing like a signal flag.
Rey feels a small, ugly curdle rise at the base of her throat, as though something she set out on a windowsill to cool is being taken up by someone who did not stand at the stove. She straightens her hands at her sides, smoothing her gloves over her fingers as if the seams might straighten her out as well.
Mr. Solo’s gaze returns to Rey for a moment before he lets himself be led with a curt nod and a hum; it’s hardly more than a glance, but it lands with a weight that makes her lift her chin. She wants to be very good for him today. She wants him to look again.
Ugh. He confuses her and annoys her and she thinks she might hate him.
She lets out a breath, looking across the courtyard at a small knot of girls lingering under the eaves, pressed into the thin sliver of shade where rain still ticks from the shingles. Rose is there, arms crossed, hat off, her dark hair braided and pinned flat as if even her hair is annoyed. She is watching everything with that narrowed, catlike stare of hers, the one that makes adults shift their feet and say her name a second time.
Rey swallows and takes half a step after Mr. Solo, then catches herself and turns back to him. Her voice comes out softer than she intends. “Mr. Solo,” she says, tipping up her face, “may I go and say hello to Rose? I can be quick.”
Mrs. Anders’ hand keeps its place on his sleeve as she talks about hydrangeas; Rey watches his jaw shift once, twice—considering the request the way he considers everything, as if the world is a ledger. He turns just enough to face Rey again. “You may,” he says, and his mouth doesn’t move much when he says it. “Be good for me, and stay where I can see you.”
Relief and a queer thrill tangle in Rey’s stomach. “Yes, Mr. Solo.”
He steps close enough that only she will hear the rest, his voice dropping the way you lower a lamp wick. “And you’ll stand with me when the bell rings.”
“Yes, sir,” she answers at once, and the words make something light and secret flare low in her chest, foolish as a sparkler.
He allows himself to be turned then, Mrs. Anders already guiding him toward the flowerbed, her voice looping around him with practiced ease. Chrissy glances back over her shoulder as if to confirm Rey is still there, then lifts her chin and turns forward with the carriage of someone who has been told all her life that rooms are improved by her entering them.
Rey presses her lips together as she crosses the courtyard, pretending her heart is not skittering for reasons that have nothing to do with religion. Gravel crunches beneath her shoes, the pink skirt whispers at her calves, and the smell of wet stone rises as the last of the storm lifts off the church walls. When she reaches the shade of the eaves, Rose’s mouth is already turned at the corner, amused and aggrieved like she’s been waiting for someone to let her complain.
“You,” Rose says without preamble, tilting her head to take in the dress. “Is that brand new? Of course it is. You look like a ladylike marshmallow.” She scowls. “Ugh. I hate you.”
Rey feels heat flash up her neck even as she smiles. “Don’t be awful,” she says, but she cannot help smoothing her palms down the skirt once more, the fabric answering her with a soft sound that feels like a secret agreement. “Does it look silly? “It’s not— I mean, Mr. Solo said I should—””
“Oh, I know exactly what Mr. Solo said,” Rose cuts in, twisting the paper fan in her hand until it squeaks. She lowers her voice and steps closer, careful to keep her back to a knot of watching mothers. “It looks like you. Which is to say: hopelessly decent. Though don’t look at me if the vultures start circling.”
“They already circled,” Rey mutters with a roll of her eyes, glancing toward the hydrangeas where Mrs. Anders leans close to Mr. Solo, her hand sketching a shape in the air as if she is measuring a column. “They’ve stolen him to discuss flowers.”
“Flowers,” Rose repeats, dry as a biscuit. “Of course. What else would a widower be thinking about, first thing, but blooms. What is it with that woman? She walks like the church hired her to usher souls to heaven and she gets commission.”
Rey bites back a laugh that tries to rise too fast. “Shh,” she says, pushing her shoulder gently into Rose’s. “You’ll be heard.”
“If I’m heard I’ll be drafted,” Rose grumbles, and then she leans closer, the brim of her hat brushing Rey’s hair. “Speaking of which—guess who has been summoned to the holy works this afternoon.”
Rey’s eyes widen. “Summoned?”
“Mm.” Rose’s mouth compresses into the kind of smile she wears at family photographs. “Pastor Hux caught me at the door and said I have ‘such a ready heart.’ I told him my heart is never ready, it sleeps like a stone, and he laughed like I’d made a joke. We are to go calling. Outreach. Mama wants me spending my weekends learning the holy passages from him.” The word arrives in Rose’s mouth as if it had splinters. “He said it twice like I might not have heard the first time. I blame you and your outreach nonsense.”
“Calling where?” Rey asks, though she suspects she already knows: the people who can least say no. The elderly. The ones whose curtains never open fully. The families who sit on the far pew and leave before the benediction.
Rose makes a little dismissive flick with her fingers. “Oh, the usual—widows, shut-ins, ladies who forget on purpose to come to church so someone will ask them why. We’ll bring tracts and smile until our cheeks ache and tell them God misses them when really Pastor misses their names in the ledger.”
“Rose,” Rey chides, though she is smiling. “You’re terrible.”
“I’m practical,” Rose returns, and then tips her head to consider Rey’s dress again. “You’ll be made to go too, I suppose. You look like the cover of the Outreach Gazette with you and Mr. Solo. ‘Before Outreach: a slattern in grey. After Outreach: this—roseate angel, now with improved morals and a recipe for lemon bars.’”
Rey muffles another laugh against her knuckles. “Don’t say lemon bars,” she says, thinking absurdly of the cookies on Mr. Solo’s kitchen table when she first visited, or the way his head had grown heavy and warm against her shoulder this morning. “I burned my fingers making toast.”
Rose’s expression changes, quick and sharp. “You were at his house this morning?”
Rey feels something in her chest seize up, then release very slowly, like a bird that has flown into a window and has to remember its wings. “Only briefly,” she says, the lie dressing itself up as a truth by walking slowly. “I brought cookies, and it was raining, and—” She trails off. She has never been good at embroidery; her stitches always show.
Rose’s gaze flicks across the courtyard to where Mrs. Anders is leaning even closer, indicating the altar rail now as if a floral arrangement might redeem an entire season of drought. “Mm,” Rose says again, the sound not unkind so much as alert. She lets it rest there, because she is Rose, and there are some complaints she would rather hold than speak.
Mr. Solo turns, as if feeling her attention, and his gaze finds her from across the space. The recognition lands like a touch. For an instant the fuss of the yard drops away. His head inclines the faintest degree—a promise that he has not forgotten where she is, that permission is ongoing so long as she uses it well. Heat pools in her cheeks again. She pretends to adjust the ribbon at her collar.
“Lord, but he’s tall,” Rose murmurs, following her line of sight. “Chrissy’s mother will have her married to him in the time it takes to slice a pie, if you let her.”
Rey’s mouth goes dry. “Chrissy is… Chrissy,” she says weakly, and both girls smile because they know precisely what that means.
“I heard,” Rose says, delight brightening the words, “that Mrs. Anders has been sending over little baskets. Chicken and dumplings, and once a pie that was mostly crust and air. Mama says that’s how some women propose marriage—through the back door.”
Rey can’t help it; her eyes return to the other side of the yard where Mrs. Anders stands turned just so, claiming Mr. Solo’s attention again. The pink dress feels suddenly too fine on her skin. A strange, small fury prickles beneath her ribs, not loud enough to shame her, not quiet enough to ignore.
“Outreach,” Rey repeats, returning to the safer shape of the conversation. “What does he actually want you to do?”
Rose grimaces. “‘Assist me directly,’ he said. First in his office—bulletins, letters, sorting prayer cards into little piles like sins—and then,” she lowers her voice, eyes cutting toward the church doors, “some afternoons at his house. ‘Correspondence,’ ‘mailing list,’ ‘discretion.’ He said that word three times like it might sprout legs and run off without him.”
Rey tries to picture the usual scene—girls in their best skirts like salesgirls, the sun loud, doors opening to polite faces—and the image won’t hold. It tilts and becomes a small room instead, the church office with its ticking clock and its window that never quite wants to open all the way. She sees Pastor Hux leaning over the desk to point at a column of names; she sees Rose’s neat, stubborn handwriting making itself useful in the narrowness. “Maybe it won’t be so bad,” Rey says, softer. “Some people like the company. And if it’s only paper and stamps—”
“It’s not the stamps.” Rose scrapes a thumb over the clipboard’s edge until it squeaks. “It’s the part where ‘private’ means no girls chattering, no witnesses if I make a face. Mama’s thrilled about it, of course—‘structure suits you, Rose’" she rolls her eyes, though glances to spot her mother out of earshot before continuing. "—and he nodded like a man who has discovered a brand new girl he can return at the end of the day with all her corners sanded down.”
Rey reaches for a thread that will tie the day into something that doesn’t pinch. “Perhaps I could be nearby. In the next room, even. I could—”
“No,” Rose says, and her smile is bright and false in the way that keeps mothers from asking questions. “He was very clear: I’m to report to him. Alone. ‘Fewer distractions,’ he said. ‘Faster work.’ He even looked pleased with himself, as if he’d invented the notion of a closed door.”
Rey swallows. The word alone sits wrong in her mouth, chalky. “Then I’ll write to you,” she says quickly, almost tripping over the promise. “If I can’t come, I’ll write. We’ll keep a string between us.”
Rose’s mouth softens. “Good. Tie it tight.” Then, because she can’t help herself, she adds, “Outreach,” rolling the word like a marble and finding the splinter in it. “What a notion. Reach out with what? Our hands? Our casseroles? Our very souls? If they were honest, the pamphlet would say: ‘We noticed you’ve been missing and, not to alarm you, but we are here—quietly, privately—to alarm you.’”
“Rose,” Rey says again, and her voice is softer than a scold because the image is too perfect. She can see the pamphlet, the black print and the cheerful exclamation point at the end, and the fact of their being girls makes all the words feel like costumes to be put on properly lest someone call them out of character.
Rey follows Rose’s glance to the hydrangeas and feels her mouth tug of its own accord. Chrissy has pivoted her body to turn her best side toward Mr. Solo; Mrs. Anders continues to speak as if time were a resource everyone else had paid for and she is determined to spend. Mr. Solo stands a little apart from both mother and daughter, just enough that the space around him belongs to him. He is listening without giving a thing away, and Rey’s stomach dips because she knows the exact feel of that kind of attention when it bends to her.
“I don’t want to be paired with Chrissy,” Rey murmurs, almost to herself, catching at the last shred of the old conversation and knowing it doesn’t apply anymore.
“You won’t be paired at all,” Rose says, cheerful in her bleakness. “That’s the point. You’ll be ‘helping a man in his grief,’ and I’ll be ‘assisting a man in his ministry.’ Very straight. Very proper.”
Rey tries to smother the laugh and fails; it breaks out of her, breathless and wrong in the church yard and so sweet it makes her eyes sting. “Stop.”
“I shan’t,” Rose says gallantly. “I am on a mission to make myself so unpleasant that they send me to the back pew with the men who sleep during the sermon. Outreach,” she repeats, rolling the word around like a marble. “What a notion. Reach out with what? Our hands? Our casseroles? Our very souls? If we were honest, the pamphlet would say: ‘We noticed you’ve been missing and, not to alarm you, but we are here to alarm you.’”
“Rose,” Rey says again, and her voice is softer than a scold now because the image is too perfect. She can see the pamphlet, the black print and the cheerful exclamation point at the end, and the fact of their being girls makes all the words feel like costumes they have to put on properly lest someone call them out of character.
The church bell begins to toll, slow and heavy, as if the storm is caught inside the metal. People begin to drift toward the double doors and the pendant light that swings overhead. Mr. Solo turns from the hydrangeas then, the conversation with Mrs. Anders neatly ended in the way he ends things: a small inclination of his head, a word Rey cannot hear, and the sudden, polite emptiness at his side that says the audience is over. Mrs. Anders smiles too widely for someone who has not won.
His eyes seek Rey without announcing that they are doing it. When they find her, the muscles in his face do not change, but something steadies inside her anyway, as if he has reached across the courtyard with that look and set her spine back upright in its stays.
Rose follows Rey’s line of sight and snorts softly. “There. You’re called to the higher service,” she says, tipping her chin toward him. “Go before Mrs. Anders produces a second set of flowerbeds from her handbag.”
Rey makes a face without teeth. “Will you be all right?” she asks, and she means it: Rose alone among the girls feels like a small flame you could protect with your hands if only the world would stop blowing.
“I will be fine,” Rose says, and then, with a sweet, wicked little smile that is all for Rey, “and if I am not, I shall join a different church. One with fewer clipboards.”
Before Rey can answer, the current of the churchyard shifts. Conversations falter. The fan of hats sways like field grass in sudden wind. Rey’s mother is coming up the path too quickly for a Sunday—gloves askew, pillbox hat slightly crooked, cheeks flushed high under her powder. She doesn’t glide, she makes a line. Even from here Rey can see it: something wrong, pulled tight across her mother’s face like a stitch that shouldn’t have to carry that much.
“Mama?” Rey breathes, already moving.
Her mother catches her by both hands and squeezes, hard enough to grind the bones. “Oh, darling,” she says, and her voice is bright in the way glasses are bright right before they shatter. “There you are. Thank the Lord.” She blinks fast, the powder at the corners of her eyes cracking. “Where is Mr. Solo?”
Rey looks toward the vestry. Mrs. Anders is still talking, but Mr. Solo has already turned. He’s coming, crossing the courtyard in three long strides, the set of his mouth altered half a shade, enough to say he’s seen Eleanor Niima’s face and knows what the crowd will make of it if he doesn’t move.
“Is everything all right?” he asks, and the gentleness in it is polished enough to pass under any door.
Rey’s mother brings a gloved hand to her throat, twisting the button there. “Mr. Solo—do forgive me, I wouldn’t—” She swallows. “Ronald was set upon last night. On his way home from your house.” The yard drinks the sentence like a dropped glass. Conversation in the near radius hushes; heads tip, just enough to be listening without being seen to be.
Rey’s stomach plummets. “Set upon?” she repeats, voice tiny.
“By some masked lunatic,” her mother rushes, words climbing over one another. “In the lane past the hedge by Mrs. Powell’s, where it’s dark. Knocked him straight to the ground like a dog. He says the fellow came from nowhere. He’s—he’s bruised terribly, Reyline, and the doctor says it’s a wonder his nose isn’t broken. His lip is split. He’s home, in bed, but he’s livid and—” She swallows again, a neat mechanical motion, like she’s forcing down something that won’t go. “And the men are in and out this morning—Deacon, the doctor, Mr. Avery from next door—there’s noise, shouting, you know how men get to proving themselves when they’re ashamed. I can’t have you in that house while they carry on. Not after last night.” Her eyes shine, the look she gives Rey so naked it stings. “Would you—” she turns to Mr. Solo, as though she’s surprised to find herself asking, as though propriety and desperation have collided and the latter has won. “Would you keep Reyline another night? Just until things are quiet? I wouldn’t ask, Mr. Solo, but I don’t know what he’ll do with all this… embarrassment. A man does cruel things when he’s embarrassed.”
The words hit Rey like a cold pail. Her father, humiliated and bandaged, roaring. The house a confined storm. The bruise at her cheek pulses, memory flashing bright and merciless. But it’s the other image—that dark lane, the masked man—that won’t sit still. Masked. On the way from Mr. Solo’s. Something slithers at the base of her skull, a thought she doesn’t want and can’t swallow: Did this happen to him, or was it done for him?
Mr. Solo doesn’t blink. His attention is fixed on her mother with a courtliness that would look like kindness from any distance. “I’m very sorry to hear it,” he says, pitched low, calming. “I hope Ronald recovers quickly.”
“He will,” her mother says, too quickly. “He’s a proud man.”
“I know,” Mr. Solo says, and the edge of the words is a razor wrapped in velvet. “Of course Reyline will be safe at my house.” He doesn’t raise his voice. He doesn’t have to. The assurance lays itself over the watching women like a quieting hand. “She’ll have the guest room again. I’ll speak with Pastor Hux after service about arranging a guardian to accompany her when she travels to and from my home so no one will have cause to comment.” His gaze flicks to Rey a fraction, locking, then returns to her mother. “I’ll also send word to the deacons that Solo Industries will cover the doctor’s fee. Perhaps that will reduce the number of men debating in your sitting room.”
Rey’s mother exhales, shaky. “You’re very good.”
“I try to be orderly,” he returns, with the ghost of something that isn’t quite a smile.
Rose sidles closer until her shoulder presses the back of Rey’s arm, anchoring. “Masked lunatic,” she mutters under her breath, like she’s testing the taste of it. “This town doesn’t have a single lunatic who can keep his hat straight. Now we’ve got masked ones?” Her mouth quirks, but the joke leaves a chalk aftertaste. “You alright?”
Rey can’t answer. Her pulse thuds loud in her ears, matching the old bell that hasn’t rung yet but might at any instant. Her eyes flick to the lane Mrs. Powell uses, a tawny slice between hedges. She pictures her father’s jaw clenched around a rag, blood swallowed rather than spat, pride bleeding through his knuckles. She pictures a man with his face covered and something mean and clean in his posture. She sees Mr. Solo’s hands—steady, unsmudged.
He didn’t—he wouldn’t— That seam rips the second she touches it. She pulls away from the thought hard enough to sway.
“Reyline?” her mother presses, and Rey realizes her hand is still trapped between her mother’s gloves. “Say thank you.”
“Thank you,” Rey whispers to him, because the words are the proper ones and because they cost her something and because she can’t think of anything else to say that won’t reveal the shape of her thoughts. “I—thank you.”
He inclines his head, a neat concession. “You’ll come with me after the benediction,” he says. It’s to her mother, but his eyes are on Rey. “We’ll stop by your house for your things. Briefly.”
Her mother nods. “I’ll have a bag ready.”
“Choose sensible items,” he says mildly. “Nothing fussy.”
“Yes,” her mother breathes, grateful to be told how to proceed.
“And Miss Rose,” he adds without turning his head, making both girls jump, “the church will appreciate your willingness to assist Pastor Hux. He’s a busy man.”
Rose’s mouth drops open, then snaps shut. “Yes, sir,” she says, each syllable folded crisp, and as he moves away her eyes round at Rey in a face that plainly says, he heard every word from across the yard.
Mr. Solo offers her Mama his arm, proper as any photograph, and the two of them walk toward the shaded edge of the lot where the deacons stand conferring, the crowd parting for him without noticing they’ve done it.
The sunlight wobbles in the heat, the stained glass throws its shards along the porch, and Rey walks. Her shoes sound small against the stone. Mr. Solo waits, the crowd flowing around him as if he’s the post and they’re the river. When she catches up to him, her mother having wandered ahead to get a 'good seat' no doubt, his hand does not touch her, but his presence has the exact same effect.
“You asked permission,” he murmurs, eyes forward as they mount the steps. “You returned when you were told.”
“Yes, sir,” she manages.
“You’re being very good for me today, Rey.”
It drips into her bones like medicine and makes her want to cry, overwhelmed with confusion and a whirlwind of emotions racing too fast that she can't grasp them. She doesn’t. She tilts her chin instead, remembering Rose’s push, and finds her place at his side as though there were no other shape her body could take.
Inside, the sanctuary is cool as a cellar, the light coloured with saints and lilies. Parasols fold shut like sleeping moths. People settle. Rey folds her hands over the pink silk and tastes fear and victory both beneath her tongue.
The back pew where Finn always slouched in a posture that made ushers sigh is empty. Him and his family are never late to church, she thinks to herself, a crease in her brow as she double-checks the crowd.
Somewhere behind her, the town is already telling the story to itself: the masked man, the proud father, the dutiful daughter, the respectable widower who opened his door. Somewhere ahead, a sermon about humility and the Lord’s protection will land on ears that would rather have gossip.
“Turn to number one-seventy-two,” Pastor Hux intones. The congregation rustles obediently.
Mr. Solo does not sing. Rey does, soft and almost steady, because it gives her something to do with her mouth besides ask the questions she’s not supposed to have. When the last chord shivers away into the rafters, her shoulder is not touching his, but her shadow and his have merged where they spill across the polished wood of the pew.
After the benediction, there will be a bag, and a brief stop, and a house that smells like cedar and smoke, and a second night in a bed that isn’t hers. After that, she doesn’t know.
She does know this much: when they rise, and the aisle opens, Mr. Solo will wait for her to step first into the current, and she will. Not because she isn’t frightened. Precisely because she is.
They sit together because there is no way to make the morning look like it belongs to God and not to gossip: Mr. Solo at the aisle, Rey beside him, her mother anchoring the inside of the pew like a ribbon pinned to keep the whole from slipping. Across the nave, the stained glass throws its colourful hues onto the backs of heads, bowed in patient piety. Rey keeps her knees close and her gloved hands folded in her lap, aware of the pink of her skirt like a flag she did not mean to raise.
When did she swim this far out of depth?
Mr. Solo opens the hymnal for them, his thumb marking the page, his cuff immaculate. Her mother leans forward to see the number and murmurs a thank you that comes out frayed. She clutches her small handbag as if someone might try to take her last good thing.
Pastor Hux steps to the lectern, his robes newly pressed, even when the weather is rude. Though, Rey notes that today there is something off in the tidy geometry of him: a shallow tear at the seam. It takes Rey a moment to name it; it is so out of keeping with the rest.
His right hand.
Rey tilts her head, her lips parting and brows knitting together.
When he lifts to adjust the microphone, she sees it. A quick, dark bloom across the knuckles, broken skin scrubbed poorly clean, the edges ridged and raw as if washed with a bar of cheap soap. Iodine has left a weak tea halo, and when his fingers touch the metal of the stand, he winces – so small a flinch that most eyes would miss it.
Her fathers’ lip, split. The masked man. The lane.
Rey’s breath falters, her eyes snapping to Mr. Solo before she can tell them not to. He does not look at her; he rarely looks at her in public. He sees her looking anyway, she knows it for certain.
He leans in, gaze focused intently on the hymnal in his hand, and Rey feels a shiver run down her spine at the whisper of his hot breath against her ear.
“Eyes forward,” he says without moving a muscle.
She obeys, the first hymn finding her mouth as a task finds hands that want something to do. She sings because not singing would make the inside of her head too loud.
She’s wrong. She’s all wrong and is far too dizzy with Mr. Solo to be understanding anything properly.
After a handful of moments, she begins to pay attention to the sermon. Pastor Hux speaks of humility, of order, of how a town is a body where the smallest wound, left unattended, can go to rot. He asks the Lord to heal those who have been “afflicted by senselessness,” and to quiet the “spirits of unrest that sometimes shiver our hedgerows.” When he turns a page, his knuckles brush the paper and a small red crescent prints, then fades as the leaf is turned.
Rey swallows hard enough to hurt. Her mother’s hand finds hers and squeezes, a small prayer rattling up through her throat – Please Lord, please – and falls back again. Rey does not trust herself to pray out loud. She thinks, instead: don’t let it be what I think, and if it is, let me never be obvious enough to show it.
At the reading, Mr. Solo passes her the thin Bible with a practiced economy that tells her he has done this for women all his life without letting any of them confuse courtesy with permission. Except, the pads of his fingertips brush the back of her hand, lingering there for the briefest of moments, but enough to leave her skin with a searing reminder. She tucks her hair behind her ear, burying the confusing feeling that rises in her chest. Top of Form
The offering plate makes its slow orbit. When it comes to Mr. Solo he places a folded piece of lined paper with the calm of a man making a grocery list. Hux watches from the corner of his eye as if the movement were a bell; Mr. Solo does not give up so much as an eyelash of reaction in return.
Hux announces the afternoon’s outreach. His voice brightens with the clean shine of a plan about to be enacted. “There will be assignments posted at the back,” he says, and smiles toward the east transept where the girls sit. “We’ve so many cheerful hearts. I’m grateful for the young hands that keep the church’s work from faltering.” He does not name Rose. He does not need to; half the ladies turn their heads at once to look at her in a way that says you have been noticed and therefore you have been chosen.
Rose, three pews forward and left, keeps her chin at a bravely unlady-like angle. She is very still. Rey can feel, across the cool reach of air, the way her friend is already composing a scathing letter she will never be permitted to send. On the other side of the aisle Mrs. Anders exchanges a look with someone and tips the corner of her mouth toward Chrissy with a tiny movement that says future and plan and ledger all at once.
The sermon is shorter than usual—Hux has learned the science of not trying the patience he depends upon. He ends with a benediction about strength and guiding hands. As he lifts his palms, Rey cannot stop herself: she looks again. The skin across his right knuckles has split wider, a gum-bloom of red at the edge where the scab refused to settle. His hand shakes once, very slightly, then stills, the quiver disciplined back into the architecture of him.
Beside her, the line of Mr. Solo’s jaw might as well be carved into the pew end. The calm of him is not a blanket; it is an instrument in tune. It makes other people sound sloppy by comparison.
“Amen,” the congregation says, obedient as rain. It dissolves into the rustle of clothes and the polite thunder of people remembering their errands. Mr. Solo does not move with the rest. He waits for the aisle to loosen, then puts his palm flat to the bench in a single measuring press and stands. Rey follows the small current of his intention as if there were a string from his shoulder to her wrist. Her mother rises more slowly, stiff with the effort of behaving as if nothing has happened to her life.
At the back, Hux has arranged himself and his clipboard at a table borrowed from Sunday school. He shakes hands with the men who come first, left hand extended, smile quick. With the women his right is unnecessary; he inclines his head and offers them warmth instead of contact. He does not break character even once. The bandage that has appeared in the space of a hymn peeks white under his cuff, neat as a lie told for the sake of appearance.
His eyes lift over a shoulder then, as if called, and clip briefly against Mr. Solo’s. It is no more than a nod—a transaction distilled into a single molecule. Rey feels it in her spine anyway, as the way you can feel thunder is coming while the sky is still making up its mind.
“Eleanor,” Pastor says, when Rey’s mother draws near with the force of someone who has to complete a task before she will be allowed to cry. “We’re praying for Ronald. The deacons—”
“Are already at my house,” she says, managing a small, brave laugh that makes Rey want to put her forehead on the floor. “We’re grateful.”
“Good,” Hux returns, and his gaze slides past to Mr. Solo with the faintest, smoothest trace of deference. “Ben.”
“Pastor,” Mr. Solo says, precisely the same weight of word. His hand is at the small of Rey’s back without touching it; he steers with air. “We’ll be on our way.”
Hux’s mouth makes a polite shape that might mean anything. “Assignments posted,” he says toward Rey without ever really looking at her. “I’d like you to remain aiding Mr. Solo for now, if you’re willing, Miss Niima.”
Rey’s fingers pick and tear at her cuticles behind her back, half-moons going white under the pressure. She tips her face up toward Mr. Solo as if the question belongs to him more than to her—perhaps to learn whether she has a choice, or perhaps only to know if he still wants what he asked for under the name of help. He turns just enough to see her and gives the smallest, cleanest nod.
She draws breath to answer Pastor Hux, and in that breath something changes: a broad, warm hand slips between her own behind the shelter of her skirt, separating her fingers with a slow, unhurried certainty until her palm is fitted inside his. The angle of their bodies makes it invisible to anyone not standing where she stands; the shock of it is wholly hers. The span of him dwarfs her hand, the steadiness of his grip quiet as a closed door, and every sensible word she had lined up collapses.
She looks at Hux and sees nothing but his good manners, his left hand poised over the clipboard, his right tucked back into the shadow of his cuff. She looks at no one, because looking would give her away, and then everyone would know that she is not a proper girl. Perhaps she never was. Her mind empties, and the lump in her throat and tightness of her lungs has her scrambling for words.
Mr. Solo’s voice answers for her, cool and level, the exact temperature of order. “We’ll coordinate particulars.”
Hux nods once, as if a box has been neatly ticked; the bandage ghosts pale when he adjusts the pages. “Of course,” he says, and his smile touches every face in the circle without settling on any single one.
A small figure edges into the hydrangea shade—Rose’s mother, hat modest, gloves honestly scuffed. She waits for two men to pass and then leans into the quiet Hux carries with him.
“Pastor,” she says softly, gratitude already set in her mouth, “thank you for taking Rose on… personally. Structure suits her. And it keeps her out of… idle company.”
Hux’s left hand settles over the clipboard, the bandaged right tucked well back. “It’s no trouble,” he answers, his smile warm though his eyes are uncreased.
After a few short minutes, the crowd loosens, hymnals closing and pie plates and casserole dishes being traded back from mother to mother, Rey half-listens to the distant voices of Mama and Mr. Solo making arrangements for Rey’s belongings to be collected – but something else has her by the scruff.
She stands there, head tilted and eyes pinched at the corners as she catches sight of her best friend.
Across the little eddy of parishioners, Pastor Hux leans to speak to Rose in the doorway and steers her toward the nave, the white of his bandage peeking beneath the neat sleeve of the hand he sets on her shoulder.
It is the smallest thought, no bigger than a seed husk, and still it stings: not the touch itself—girls are guided this way a hundred times a summer—but the clean, untroubled certainty of it, and the way Rose’s bright, stubborn head tips because the moment is constructed so that any other answer would be called trouble. Rose glances back once, no more than a tilt of chin, and Rey reads it too easily—"There you are,” then—before the angle of Hux’s body swallows her from view. The bandage flashes again as he ushers her through, a neat white ribbon tied around something that Rey does not have the strength to question.
Rey’s mouth shapes the beginning of her name, no louder than a held breath, but the syllable catches on the inside of her teeth. She could step after her, two strides, three; she could paste on a smile and ask some ordinary question about assignments and pencils, soak the moment in harmlessness until the sting runs clear. She almost does. Her weight shifts a fraction on her heels, the smallest, childish lean toward her friend.
Whatever thought had been forming melts away, soft as butter on a hot pan when the increasingly familiar weight of Mr. Solo’s hand slides to rest at the crown of her shoulder. She blinks, forgetting what she was doing.
“Come, Rey,” Mr. Solo says, low, and she goes, catching up her skirt with careful fingers and finding, without being told, the measure of his stride as they walk toward his car.
Notes:
All the lovely comments from last chapter brought me so much joy! thank you to everyone who comments, tells me their thoughts and theories, or even just reads and enjoys the writing I attempt to succeed at. It's such a motivation! <33
As usual I do have no beta so please lmk if I've repeated, misspelled, or generally made no sense bc I am exhausted rn
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