[ He crumbles in the way great monuments do, unraveling from the top down until he's nothing but a pile of rubble at her feet, but Rey does not feel better for having toppled him. A biting cold stings her skin where his hands had tightened around her arms. This will always be the way of them, a tide ebbing and flowing—or maybe it's just Kylo Ren's natural current, and she's the one getting swept in how he swells and retreats after he crashes against her shore.

It was no easier for the hidden reminder, for blood still smeared the tile below them, and hatred still ached to be heard. But hurting him will not end the cycle of pain that denied her a family: it will only perpetuate it, and Kylo Ren's death will not give her another chance at a childhood any more than it will resurrect Han Solo.

The bloodlust clawing up her throat, contorting in her chest, wilts into placid acceptance. Her fist opens, and Rey rests her palm on his shoulder. Even in ruins, Kylo Ren is massive, and she finds no physical difficulty in her pacifying efforts; the struggle is all within her. ]

I never claimed it would be simple, just as it would never be simple for you to leave the light behind.

[ She lowers herself slowly, and in her crouch, she is again dwarfed beside him. Though she doubts her voice is the only one he hears now, or perhaps because of it, she urges him with patience drawn from a wellspring that she believed had run dry. ]

You can feel it, can't you?