She didn't have the money.

Rey cursed at the tip jar again, picking it up and rattling it for good measure, the paltry sum of four dollars and sixty-seven cents (yes, she counted) clicking against the mason jar's glass somewhat pleasantly. She tossed her wash rag down on the oak bar, hands bracing herself up as she glared down at her feet, cheap Walmart sneakers barely holding themselves together, the duct tape on the sole having been soaked in this morning's rain-puddled jog to work.

There were tears edging at her eyes, and the struggle to keep them back was a fiery bite at the back of her throat, something akin to the acrid aftertaste of a tequila shot without the lime, one of those drinks you only gave to people too drunk to remember the pain. She supposed that she was grateful that the bar was dead, it being a Sunday morning in the busy city of Coruscant, that no one would bother her as she let her shoulders slump, the tears hot and fast as they dripped down her chin, unlike the cold, languid rain spattering the bar's glass door.

When she had gotten the save-the-date card in the mail, she had cried then too—but out of joy. Rey remembered as she sniffled and chuckled, wiping her nose and wincing with it. When that card came in, she was in the middle of a Skype call with the lucky couple. Finn and Poe had grinned cheekily as she had squealed and then sobbed at the news, especially as Finn asked her to stand in their wedding, to be his best maid (a term that Poe teased them about, but with a fondness, a pride, attached). They had promised her that they weren't doing anything big, that any dress she had in her closet would be fine for the ceremony, that she didn't have to have a second dress for the reception, none of that nonsense. They knew she was a student, that money was tight, her presence would be enough.

When she had gotten that card, she thought that it'd be no big deal, that she would have the money to make the ceremony. Then life stepped in, as it so often does, and threw her curveballs when it knew that she can't play ball worth a damn.

First, it was college graduation that had uprooted her, left her on shaky ground. True, at age twenty-two, she had more than enough work experience to spare—now a retired resident adviser, who had balanced fifteen credit hours and two part-time jobs to boot—but of course, it wasn't in her career field. A double major in advanced mathematics and writing had been preached as a "smart idea," that she'd for sure have a job waiting for her at the end of the graduation ceremony. Instead, she found herself still bartending, moonlighting as a freelance writer when her schedule would allow, which was never.

Then it was her grandfather's health crisis. Rey knew that she couldn't be mad about it necessarily—at the time, it made the most sense to drop everything and fly back home as soon as possible. It made sense to give up those extra shifts she had been banking on, to use that savings fund for the last-minute trip instead of the plane ticket to the wedding. Chewie, her boss at the bar, understood. Her landlord and student loan collectors? Not so much.

Considering how close she had come to losing him to pneumonia, she didn't begrudge her grandpa Ben for her financial troubles—and it was for that reason that she refused to accept his money when she came back. It still burned her up a bit inside that she had to accept a hand-out (even though Jessica would insist that it was anything but), moving in with her coworker/friend to make ends meet, to not worry as much. It had helped a little, but not enough.

The final nail in her coffin was that her speeder, a little dinged up VW Beetle (her grandfather's first "nice" car, back in the day), had finally bit the dust. What would have been a six-hour flight had turned into a two to three-day drive, and then into nothing, because Rey was sure that if she attempted the make the cross-country walk to Takodana, all 2000 and some odd miles of it, she wouldn't have feet anymore anyways.

The outside door's overhead bell jingled, and as she listened to the door slam, Rey tried to hide the evidence that she had been crying, two quick swipes along her cheeks seemingly clearing the bulk of it. Her runny nose, and puffy red eyes? Well, she'll let any customer think that she had a hangover. With the type of clientele the Millennium bar hosted—an odd mix of gangsters and businessmen—Rey knew that she wouldn't be bothered, that if anything, they'd be quiet with their drinks, and maybe kind with their tipping.

When she saw who it was that stalked up to the bar, slumping in the farthest seat, the girl wasn't sure if she wanted to roll her eyes or crack a smile. Seeing how his eyes had slid past her, how his head was drowsily resting on the bar, she went with the happy medium: taunting.

"Ben Solo!" The man bolted upright, blurry eyes attempting to focus, the all-nighter he just pulled unkind to him. With that voice, he knew that it was just the bartender. With her delivery though, he could have sworn it was Ms. Kanata, his fifth-grade teacher from hell.

"You just had to give me a Takodana welcome, didn't you, Kenobi?" His drawl was the long-suffering kind, punctuated with him dragging his hands down his face, trying to wake up, even as he let his large hands cover his eyes. From his left, he could hear her chuckle, her sneakers squeaking on the waxed linoleum behind the bar, a glass sliding along to bump his arm. When he peeked, it was a hot cup of coffee and the girl had her back to her, polishing glasses again. His sigh was grateful as he cradled the mug carefully, drinking deeply before sputtering, a shudder shooting up through him. Of course—she spiked it with whiskey. Her eyes were on him, smirk wide, and so he took another sip for her benefit, grimacing with the sharp burn.

"Thanks, asshole."

"You're welcome, shitface." He snorted, glancing at her and raising his mug, resigned but respectful. Their relationship was an odd one—onlookers at the bar would call it almost familial, watching the bartender trade barbs with the former owner's son. Chewie would call it professional, seeing that he bantered with his staff, though not as often and as brutally as his co-owner did with Rey, but he digressed. Jessica swore that there was sexual tension somewhere, or at least an understanding, citing how Rey never called the man Mr. Ren like everyone else, but Kylo, sometimes even Ben, even though everyone else was forbidden. Nevertheless, no matter what you called it—odd, belligerent, amusing—they worked together well enough that things always went smoothly.

"Where have you been, Kylo? You look like you lost another drinking match with Chewie." He rolled his eyes, draining his mug, wiping his mouth as Rey poured more of the brew into his cup, the rolling steam feeling nice on his face.

"Worse—I was doing inventory." There was a groan and an empathetic tap on his shoulder, but not more of a response. Odd, he mused. Usually, during her Sunday morning shifts, Rey would jump at the chance to talk to anyone, chattering nonstop as soon as he stopped by, prolonging his visits at least twofold. Not that he minded.

"What's up with you?" There was a beat, no response, almost a pointed attempt at ignoring him as she unloaded the tiny dishwasher behind the counter, the wine glasses clinking together as she went. True, Kylo didn't know her as well as many would believe, but he knew enough about people, in general, to know that she was avoiding the conversation. His mind wracked over the possible touchy subjects. Her grandfather was doing better, so it wasn't that. She didn't have a significant other, not one important to talk about, the thought heating his ears, a feeling that he shook off. No reason to be jumping on that train of thought, he scolded himself. His eyes wandered over to the schedule board, eyes alighting on the blocked off days on Rey's sheet.

Ah. Of course.

"You're still going to the wedding, right?" Rey stilled now, bracing herself against the bar-top and the counter across, careful not to look back at her boss, cursing all the while. Despite how unbearable he was growing up (one of those older kids who got into trouble, was used as an example by her grandfather, despite them being friends with his family), she couldn't deny how he was always able to figure out what the problem was. But she didn't want pity right now. She wanted to be left alone.

His hand covering hers forced her head up, her look back, his brows knit in confusion—and was that concern? Grimacing, she wrenched her hand out from under his, sighing with frustration at his quirked eyebrow, how he leaned forward. He always gave her this look before she spilled her guts, so why delay? Rey sighed again, snatching up a glass and polishing it roughly, taking her discomfort on the washrag and the glass. She hated whining but she would allow it, especially now as Kylo poked her, as if impatient.

"It doesn't look like I'll be going. I don't have enough money to afford to fly out, and even if I did, I should have booked my ticket at least a month ago." He made a noise from the back of his throat, as if he understood, pressing on:

"Why don't you drive? I'm sure Chewie wouldn't be opposed to covering your shifts for you for a few extra days." She snorted at him, elbows on the counter as she leaned in.

"Didn't you hear? My car died a few weeks ago. I'm not exactly in the position to drive anywhere, let alone back home." Rey turned away, back to the glasses, content to drop the conversation. Instead, she nearly dropped a glass, her hands fumbling across the smooth surface at Kylo's suggestion:

"Well, then, why don't you catch a ride back with me?" He watched her sputter and then burst into laughter, doubling up with it as he looked on, stiff and unsure whether he should be insulted or not.

"Kylo, the only time I will only accept a ride from you is when I know it isn't out of pity or wanting something to hold over my head for the next decade. Besides, memory serves that you were a shit driver back in the day." Rey watched his grip on the mug tighten, his eyes threatening to fall out of his head with how hard he rolled them.

"I'll have you know, Kenobi, that my driving has gotten better over the years, and has always been better than your so called 'skills'." She tossed her head back to laugh at him again, but he cut her off before the sound could leave her mouth.

"I was on my way back this weekend anyways." Her eyebrow arched, hand finding hip as her mouth quirked, disbelieving. He huffed, glancing down at his coffee, how it swirled dark, wondering if his hands shook. "I'm bringing my dad's old car back to my mom, okay?"

In an instance, the suspicion was dropped, Rey's eyes softening. "Of course. The anniversary…that's this weekend, isn't it?" She watched his slow nod, dark eyes introspective as she sighed. "It's been a year, Ben. You still haven't found anyone to sell it to?"

"It's not exactly something you sell to some random guy." The words were harsh, short of a sneer, but there was a flash of mortification, and Kylo exhaled, apologetic. "My uncle figured he would have an easier time with it, take it off my hands. It's probably just going to rust, anyways."

She hummed in response, letting them fall into silence for a beat. They didn't talk about Han's death. Not because Rey couldn't empathize—she could, Han had been her spot of home in this far-off city during college. They didn't talk because it was too hard, too serious for a bar. The customers could be depressed while they drink and pretend to be merry, but those who worked there? It was an unspoken rule to fake happy, and so the two allowed that rule to compose the silence, setting a melody of quiet sips and tinkling glasses.

"The wedding is on Saturday, right?"

"Yes." For a moment, Rey wondered if she said it too quickly, watching his head snap up as if surprised that she was still there, as if he was talking to himself. Kylo shook himself out of his stupor, nodding again. "I'll text Chewie, see if he'll find someone to cover those shifts. Knowing him, he'll cover them himself—you know how he is." Rey snorted in agreement, and he allowed himself to simper at the sound.

He'd take that as a yes, an agreement, pushing himself up with a groan. As Rey swept away his mug, rinsing it for the dishwasher, he consulted his phone, scowling at it as he looked over his calendar. "How do you feel about leaving tomorrow?"

Rey felt her eyebrows raise high as if attempting to reach her hair. "It's certainly short notice. I haven't packed yet."

Kylo scoffed, rolling his eyes. "It's not as if you give me a lot to work with. If worse comes to worse—which it will, driving that old shitbucket—it'll take us three days to get there. Knowing how Poe is, he probably has a rehearsal dinner planned for Friday night, and anyways that's the day I told my mother I'd be back by then, and…"

"Solo." He glanced at her, wondered if he had been rambling as she leaned forward, hand on hip again. "You worry too much." He opened his mouth to snark back, but she fluttered a hand at him, cutting him off once more. "I'll be ready to leave by 9 am. No earlier."

"7 am."

"8 am, and you better have coffee."

"7:45 am, and I'll even get you breakfast." She growled at him, tossing her hands up. "Fine. But only because you know I'll never say no to food."

He smirked at her, turning to go, pausing when she called after him, curious. "Weren't you invited to the wedding too?"

"I was, but then Poe asked me to be his best man, and well, I wasn't about to walk with you, of all people, down an aisle. I may be his buddy from college, but I wasn't about to get harassed by my employee on the happiest day of my best friend's life." Rey stuck her tongue out at him, muttering as he turned away, simpering, catching something about it being preferable to walk Finn's corgi, Beebee, down the aisle instead anyways.

It wasn't until he had stepped out into the rain did Kylo seem to wake up. Did he really just agree to drive across the country with his most tempestuous employee? He wondered if he had walked into a trap, if Rey had purposefully spiked his coffee, made him soft, made him vulnerable. If she did, then kudos to her—it worked. He knew better though, and so shrugged it off, vowing to make the best of it, even as the rain drenched his neck, his second thoughts keeping him from focusing on the coming storm.