♕Chapter 3♕

English literature and sex.

Your English professor-- the very same one you'd been unhealthily infatuated with since the first time you'd ever seen him strutting across the quad-- was giving you lessons in English literature and sex.

And apparently these things went hand-in-hand, seeing as he had made it abundantly clear that the thing you were lacking most in your academic endeavors was patience, so theoretically, the sex also translated well to your actual tutoring, or whatever he called it. It almost made sense; Kylo Ren was either completely deranged or a damn genius.

Probably both? You were quite confident that he was both, but perhaps leaning a hair more towards deranged-- not that it deterred you in the slightest.

You'd emailed him your cell phone number and personal email; you were connected to him through your designated school email accounts just as everyone else was, but that was not a safe channel of communications for what he'd proposed to you the other night.

The other night-- when you went to his office of your own volition and ended up committing a certain act that could get him fired and you expelled.

You'd given him your number so you could coordinate your next meeting. That was on Friday night. By Sunday afternoon, he had arranged for you to join him at his house. To your utter shock, he sent you a driver. And he'd told you to "be discreet."

Evidently this really was a concern for him, as he'd told you to meet the driver at least a few blocks from campus. He was smart to make that decision; better safe than sorry, especially given what you two were up to.

You met the driver in front of a dunkin donuts a good walk away from campus. You were expecting an Uber, but by the looks of it, this guy looked like he was a professional driver. Like a suit-and-tie chauffeur who actually got up and opened the door for you. As in, this guy worked for Ren.

You held your hands silently in your lap during the ride, and desperately resisted the urge to ask about a million questions, even though your mind was racing.

The ride was just under twenty minutes, and you couldn't help but wonder if this was such a good idea. After all, Ren had sent you a driver to take you to his house, where you'd never even been before. And Kylo Ren, as it turned out, may not actually be Kylo Ren after all. The mystery of "Ben Solo" was tugging at your brain, and suddenly you found yourself actually saying a silent prayer that Kylo Ren hadn't killed this poor Ben Solo and stolen his identity.

When the driver pulled up in front of a ridiculously fancy looking brownstone in a very swanky part of town, your brain went silent.

"Why've we stopped?" You asked.

"We've arrived, ma'am." He said, climbing out of his seat and opening your door, extending a gloved hand to help you out from the back seat.

No, no, no. This couldn't be it. This couldn't be where Ren lived. These types of homes, homes in this neighborhood in particular, had to cost nearly a million at the bare minimum. You knew that Ren probably made a good salary because you knew how bougie your college was; in fact, you were painfully aware of that seeing as your status as a scholarship kid reminded you every goddamned day. But this was even above that. Where the hell did he get the money for a place like this? And for a personal driver?

You found your legs were shaky as you climbed the steps of the brownstone. You took a deep breath, praying briefly for god to just smite you down before you had to walk into that fucking house. He didn't, so you rang the doorbell.

You heard a gruff "just a minute," and then heavy footsteps. God, you couldn't even see him, and you could tell he was just as imposing as ever. After a few moments of what you were sure was him walking across his incredibly expansive home, Kylo Ren reached the door.

He opened it, eyes falling on you, and then opened it wider, taking a step back and gesturing for you to come in without giving you a word of greeting.

You stepped into a marvelously daunting foyer. The floor was checkered with elegant black and white tile which, after a good few yards, gave way to a winding mahogany staircase leading upwards.

Standing in his uncomfortably elegant grand foyer, you couldn't have felt more out of place as you held up a greasy, paper dunkin' donuts bag. "Brought you a bacon wake-up wrap."

Ben blinked. Was he surprised? You could never tell with him, he was so impossible to read. He blinked again and then to your pleasant surprise, said "Thanks."

"Of course, if you have private chefs too, I get it. Won't be offended. I just didn't realized you..." your voice trailed off as you looked at the ceiling, turning around slowly in a circle to take in the expensive looking artwork on the walls and the chandelier above you, "were living like a freaking rock star." You breathed.

He gave you a flat look before turning on his heel and beckoning you to follow with two fingers. He headed up the stairs and wordlessly, you followed.

"I thought we'd work in the living room." What kind of sociopath had a living room on the second floor? "The study's packed, but there's plenty of space up here. Use it however you like."

You shrugged. To be honest, you worked best when you were sprawled out on the floor and had every paper you needed spread out around you and visible. Chairs and desks were too confining.

At the top of the steps was a living space. It was open and spacious, filled with elegant and modern furnishings: a couple of royal blue couches, a marble coffee table, armchairs that were simple yet sleek and likely cost upwards of a few hundred bucks, and that was being modest.

"Feel free to work at the table."

"I'm good." You said, slinging your backpack off in the middle of the room. You didn't sit down, however; you opted to hold onto his gaze, hoping he noticed the length of your skirt- or lack thereof. You thought for a wistful moment, back to Friday night. How it felt when his firm hand found your shoulder and urged you down, pulled your hair and guided you to his-

You cleared your throat, narrowing your eyes at him. He said nothing, gave you absolutely no hint of what the afternoon had in store for you. You wondered, in the darkest part of your mind, what Kylo Ren had planned for you today...

The answer was studying.

Lots and lots of studying.

You groaned and threw your head back as soon as you heard the words, "Let's start with the essay you never turned into me." And not in the good way.

You came in half-expecting him to bend you over a table again, but after an hour and a half, you were still sprawled on the floor, your legs out to the side and your laptop and notes in front of you. He spent the droning, endless minutes pacing behind you, asking you if you'd remembered to consider and include such and such, and then snickering when you sighed in defeat, realizing that you'd completely forgot about such and such, and honestly didn't really care about such and such because you hated deconstructionism. Something about it just put you to sleep.

But for the most part, Kylo sat behind you, flipping through a book on philosophy and remaining a resource for your few questions.

But before you hit the two-hour mark, and after too many "wrong"'s voiced from Kylo behind you, you tore off your blue-light glasses and tossed them to the side.

"I need a fucking break." You huffed, standing up.

"You haven't finished." He said, closing his book and looking up at you. God, he looked sexy just lounging like that: legs parted, one arm slung over the side of the couch, body smelling like clean linen and old books. "This paper was due two weeks ago."

"I've been working for two hours!" You argued.

"Not quite." He said, glancing down at his watch.

"Okay, well, maybe I don't care because this whole thing is stupid. You cant just sit behind me and say 'wrong,'" you imitated his deep voice for emphasis, prompting a scoff from Kylo, "every time I try to complete a thought and not give me a single reason to give a fuck about deconstructionism."

He looked at you as if you'd just insulted his mother. "Why should I have to give you a reason? If you'd done the reading, you would have figured out why you should 'give a fuck about deconstructionism.'"

"Well I couldn't finish the reading because it put me to sleep!" You admitted without a shred of apology. "Forgive me if I think that imagery and allusion and, and other literary elements," you stuttered "give a text meaning. This is fucking stupid. I can't fathom how you expect me to get through a single article about this crap."

"I don't expect you to get through a single article about this crap, because I'm starting to doubt that you have the capacity for patience." He argued, raising his voice and standing to his feet.

"You love analyzing texts. You love picking apart allusion and imagery to find meaning. I've seen it in your damn papers! The fact that you don't like deconstructionism is a baffling indicator of how fucking obtuse and simple-minded you can be." He leaned down, picking up an article thumping the paper with the back of his hand. "If you had done the reading, you would have seen that deconstruction is all about rejecting the binary. Finding meaning beyond what you learned in your freshmen poetry class." He sneered.

Okay, so you may have misunderstood deconstructionism.

He breathed heavily. You were both clearly peeved with each other, cranky and testy after nearly two hours of frustrating work. You stood there at odds with each other, watching one another closely. He was about to pounce on you when you sighed, defeated.

"I'm sorry. I struggled with this topic. It's just...it's boring on the surface. I get distracted or frustrated that I'm not understanding it, and then I give up. I guess I just don't have a capacity for patience." You said.

A smirk tugged on the edge of his lips. "That's why you're here, isn't it?"

Another two hours later, you'd burned through two cups coffee, an article on deconstructionism and you actually read the whole thing! And shockingly, your paper was done. You didn't remember falling asleep at the living room bar (yes, he had a fucking bar in his living room,) but the next thing you knew was his hand pressing on your back.

His lips were close to you, his voice plain and all-consuming in your ears. "I think it's time you go home." He said gently.

Interesting. You furrowed your brow, sitting up and rubbing your eyes. When you turned to look at him, he was heading downstairs. You longed for his touch. It was gentle, almost unrecognizable, and then just as you shook yourself from your sleep, it was gone. Almost as if it'd been a dream.

"Pack up your stuff." He said. "Phone's downstairs; I'll give my driver a call."

As he descended to the lower level, you looked out the window. It was nightfall already. You looked around the room, taking it in once more. Now that you weren't stressed about your paper and hopelessly wracking your brain, you noticed how cozy and lovely it was.

But there wasn't a single picture frame, not an old ice-sweat stain on the coffee table, not a mess that he hadn't cleaned up yet. The place was spotless, but as if it hadn't even been lived in.

You stood slowly, unable to keep yourself from peering up the staircase off the living room that lead to the next floor. It was such a beautiful house. So elegant and luxurious, yet devoid of any memorabilia or homeliness.

Not truly thinking about you were doing, you took a timid step up the stairs. Then another. And then, you were walking without considering the consequences or the breach of privacy you were committing, peering into the darkness of the empty hallway, lined with doors on either side, the words "Ben Solo" echoing in the back parts of your brain.

Slowly, you reached out to one of the doors, fingers landing gingerly on the cold doorknob. Silently, you turned, and then pushed. The hinges whispered a scream as you slowly pushed open the door.

Emptiness.

The room you found yourself standing in was completely empty.

It was a charming room, or it would have been, if it was lived in. The windows spanned nearly the whole length of the wall. There was a closed-off marble fireplace that made for an absolutely beautiful mantle, a crystal chandelier, soft gray walls and beautiful hardwood floors. It was a rather small room that didn't seem to connect to a bathroom; it would be perfect for a child's room. The thought tugged at your heart, but a noise from behind you ripped all ideas out of your mind and smashed them against the wall.

Kylo Ren cleared his throat. You gasped and spun around, bracing yourself for whatever mess you'd gotten yourself into.

"Andrew's on his way." He said flatly, all but glaring at you. His eyes were steely-cold, his entire body tensed. Your eyes flickered down and noticed that his hands were practically balled into fists.

"I'm sorry." You sputtered before you could help yourself. "It's just...it's such a beautiful house, I just wanted to... I won't- I'm not- I don't think it's weird or anything, that it's empty. I swear" You stammered, your foot fully in your mouth at this point. You cursed yourself, trying to explain. "I just wanted to...I should have asked. I'm sorry."

Kylo Ren struck you as just about the most private person on the face of the planet. And yet here you found himself, snooping around his home without permission, standing in a suspiciously empty room. But why was it empty? And why was the house so devoid of personality? Suddenly, you found yourself wondering how long he'd been working at the college. For all you knew, he was a serial killer. And incredibly wealthy serial killer who had to be ready to abandon his place of residence at a moment's notice.

"What are you doing sneaking around my house?"

Who is Ben Solo?

"I'm not sneaking!" You insisted. "I just...I wanted-"

"Were you trying to find my bedroom?"

"What? No!" You squeaked.

"What exactly were you trying to find?"

You blinked. "Kylo, I wasn't trying to find anything."  You told him. "I'm sorry. I just wanted to see what the rest of this place looked like."

His jaw set. "But you're wondering why it's empty?" He didn't phrase it like a question.

You swallowed thickly, your face giving away your fears. Not that you thought he was a serial killer: you knew that was overkill and fucking stupid. But it was...weird, wasn't it? Someone as obviously wealthy as him, someone who was going by a name that wasn't his own, who could afford to convert his spaces into whatever he wanted...why would his home be so unfeeling?

And to find a room completely empty...it didn't sit right with you, not given the circumstances.

"And you're being secretive." The words fell out and lay before him before you even realize you'd said them.

It was maybe the heaviest silence you'd even felt. The weight of your words hung thick in the air and you wished more than anything that you could take them back.

He eyed you before speaking. His gaze made your blood feel like ice. "I inherited this house from my father when he died." He said.

You took a breath. "I'm-I'm sorry."

"My mother was born into money. She and my father lived out of state, but he's originally from here, in Boston. When he died, I thought maybe she'd move back here to be closer to me." He looked away, jaw tensing. "But my mother and I...we haven't been in contact with each other in a long time. Not like a mother and son should. She didn't come, but sent me a letter that the house would pass along to me. I was living in an apartment at the time. It was nice. Perfectly adequate for my needs. But I didn't want the house to go to someone outside of the family. So I took it."

"O-oh." You muttered in a small voice, furrowing your brow, feeling a twinge in your heart for his suffering but not fully understanding why he was telling you this.

He lifted his gaze, eyes meeting yours with the same coldness that was there before he started talking to you. "It has six bedrooms."

You blinked. "I'm sorry?"

"This house. It has six bedrooms." He tilted his head. "Forgive me, but I'm not an interior decorator, and I don't have the time nor the patience to furnish several empty rooms when my job barely allows me to be home at all."

Shit.

You felt like an idiot. You felt invasive and dirty, and honestly, sort of psychotic. What the hell you were thinking, picking the most fiercely private and mysterious individuals you knew to sneak around their house behind closed doors?

You felt heat rising to your cheeks as he stood in the doorway. You felt embarrassment roiling in your stomach and shame settling deep in your chest.

Way to really fucking humiliate yourself.

"I'm sorry." You said again. What else did he except you to say? And how many times did he expect you to say it? "Honestly," you said, shaking your head and exhaling, "I've never even stepped foot in a place like this. My house is, like, a fraction this size. I go to school on a scholarship that cuts my tuition in half. I know it was a dick move, and I'm sorry, but I don't think you know how insane this place is to someone like me."

You held his gaze, heart beating fast, hoping he believed your words, but feeling guilty at pulling the sob-story card. Sure, everything what you said was true: you didn't come from money like he did, and your friends and you always joked about how you'd never be able to afford a place like this. But a part of you, a dark part of you, was suspicious of him, of his secrecy and mysteriousness.

He sighed, crossing his arms and leaning against the doorway.

"Come here." He said, after a pause of pondering your intrusion and beckoning you begrudgingly towards him. "Let me show you the rest of it."

You grinned, nodded, and followed him out of the room and down the hall.

You'd never seen a home laid out like this before. He mentioned the first floor was made up mainly by the foyer and recreation room. The second floor housed the living room, kitchen, and dining room. The third floor, where Kylo had caught you, had one empty bedroom and one room that he'd converted into a study. He opened up the door to show you. It was meticulously organized, which you scoffed at, considering that earlier, he'd said it had been a mess.

A mess for his standards, you supposed.

"What's down there?" You asked, gesturing to the other end of the hall.

He led you to the other end, opening the door. "Master bed."

You looked at him for permission, and when he nodded, you poked your head through the opening of the door.

It was absolutely magnificent, and absolutely massive. It kept the elegant, nearly rococo style that had been built into the house, that you didn't think matched with Kylo's personality. Despite the gold mirror and crystal chandelier and painted trimmings on the wall, he'd modernized the furnishings.

His bed was over twice the size of yours. As you looked around his living space, you tried not to feel jealous.

"It's really nice." You told him.

He looked into the room as if he was trying to see what you saw. But you didn't get the impression that he didn't feel grateful for the beautiful things he had.

You got the impression that he just didn't feel like it was home.

"It's more than I deserve." He admitted, before stepping away and continuing up the stairs. "There's one more thing you should see."

You followed Ren to a door at the top of the stairs. When he opened it, you felt the cool, Boston night air wisp against your skin. You grinned, following him onto his very own private rooftop terrace, tasting the fresh air and walking to the fence, eyes falling on the skyline of other beautiful brownstones.

He came to stand beside you, silently watching you explore his world.

"Is there anything you don't have?" You asked breathlessly.

You heard him laugh from beside you, softly. Sadly. He didn't answer.

You turned to him. "Thank you for showing me. You have an incredible home."

"Thank you." He muttered, eyes flickering down to your lips.

You thought you'd kiss. You thought he'd pull you roughly against him and you could snuggle into his chest. But he didn't. The next thing you knew, he was walking you to his car, arms at his side. But as you climbed into the back seat, thanking him for his generosity, you felt his hand on your lower back, just for a moment.

And as you rode away back to campus, you furrowed your brow, watching him shrink in the rearview mirror, staring after you as you left.

So studying was the only thing in the cards today...was there anything wrong with that? Did he not want you anymore? What kind of potential did he actually see in you, and what were his true intentions for tutoring you privately?

You leaned your head against the window and watched the stars.

You felt ashamed for being suspicious of him. For looking around his home without his permission as a result of your skepticism, even if he forgave you. You felt worse that you'd lied about not being slightly suspicious of him. Because even though he'd opened up to you, explained why he lived life a little differently, the tugging at the back of your mind was still there.

It was stronger.

Something still didn't sit right.

When you got back to your dorm, you slung your jacket over the couch in the living room and continued to your bedroom. Being curious wasn't doing you any good, and it had nearly gotten you into trouble today. Time to put it to rest.

Opening your laptop, even though you felt creepy continuing to dig, you pushed through the dirty feeling.

"Fuck it." You muttered to yourself, opening Google.

And then your fingers were typing, and you were chewing on your lip.

"Who is Ben Solo"

Search.