Trigger warning for disordered eating.
True need hurts in the pit of your stomach, a hollowness begging to be filled. Rey remembers that feeling as well as her own name, because hunger was her constant companion for fifteen years, the closest thing to a friend that she knew. It held her close while she fought to sleep, the ache in her belly the only distraction from her loneliness. Hunger never lied, never cheated her, never left her behind, and its pain was a petty one compared to suffering of the heart. By age nine Rey had taught herself how to accept it, to work through it, to thrive off of her bodyâs weakness instead of being crippled by it.
Now sheâs a Resistance fighter, and whenever she returns from a mission thereâs a hot meal waiting for her. Real meat, fresh greens, hearty bread, ripe fruit, and itâs always something different every day. Luxurious fare for a scavenger, used to the same monotonous portions when she was lucky enough to eat at all.
Today she swirls her rare meat in its brown sauce, then cuts it into tiny pieces. It smells delicious, unfamiliar spices heating its scent, and Reyâs mouth waters as she breathes in. She should eat, she knows, but her mission to uncover the First Orderâs new weapons schematics went poorly. All she can think about is Unkar Plutt, evaluating the fruits of her dayâs labors, and deeming them only worth a quarter-portion. If you donât earn your keep, you go hungry; this is the truth of the world as Rey sees it.
It seems wrong to take this food when she doesnât deserve it. So she slides her tray over to Finn, who frowns and asks if sheâs feeling all right.
âIâm fine, just not hungry,â Rey lies. âSee you later.â
She wanders the base, trying to think of anything besides the familiar ache in her belly. She isnât paying enough attention, because she rounds a corner without looking and runs right into Kylo Ren. He steadies her, those large hands cradling her shoulders, and Rey feels small beneath the strength of his touchâthe way she always does.
(She refuses to think about the nights theyâve shared together. How he sometimes comes to her room in the dark hours between dusk and dawn. How she lets him in, every time, because loneliness is a wicked thing, and Kyloâs place in her bed keeps it at bay. At least for a little while.)
Her gaze is drawn to the thick, puckered burn mark that cuts across his face. The scar she gave him the night Starkiller collapsed. The night he murdered his father.
âAdmiring your handiwork?â he asks, voice dry.
His hands are still on her, warm even through the thickness of his gloves.
Kylo has abandoned the menacing black clothes he wore while he was under Snokeâs command, but he still dresses in dark colors and covers himself all over. Except for his face. He doesnât hide behind a mask anymore.
Rey steps backward, breaking the contact. She walks around him, doesnât bother answering his flippant question, and makes her way to her room.
She goes to bed early and lies on her back, staring up at the ceiling, hopelessly awake. Reyâs stomach is twisted in knots, but she ignores the pain. Instead, she focuses on the sense of power she feels, the control over her own aching body. For once, she owns this hurt, instead of it possessing her. Sheâs hungry by choice instead of circumstance, and Rey feels strangely proud of her discipline, as if resisting dinner was a test sheâd passed.
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