First Order ships are not built for comfort, they’re built for obedience. Cold metal walls, stark light, a single viewport showing nothing but endless stars that you’ll never reach. You’re kept here for information, officially. Just another prisoner in a cell.

Kylo Ren ensures everyone remembers that. When officers stand to attention behind him, when stormtroopers flank the door, he addresses you like dirt beneath his boot.

But in private, he couldn’t be more different.

The first time it happened, he had come straight from the bridge, fury still clinging to him like a second cloak. A mission failed, Hux had questioned his abilities, the galaxy had refused to bend to his whims fast enough. He hadn’t said a word. He simply caught your face in both hands and pressed his forehead to yours as though you were the only solid thing left for him.

It's happened often since then, this silent seeking of comfort. He comes to you in the dead hours, when the ship quiets. Sometimes he paces first, restless energy vibrating through him. Sometimes he sinks onto your narrow bunk, sitting beside you in silence, shoulders bowed in a way he would never allow another to see. Then, he’ll leave before dawn. The door seals. And in the morning, he looks at you like you are nothing at all.

Tonight is no different.

The door seals with a hydraulic hiss and Kylo stands motionless for a long moment, shoulders rigid beneath black robes. His mask tilts slightly, as though listening for something beyond the hum of the ship, then he removes it.

He crosses the space between you in three strides and stops too close, his lips pressed in a thin, rigid line. Then his gloved hands are on you, lingering at your waist, hauling you against him to steal the comfort of your warmth. An almost kiss brushes your temple before his face is tucked into your neck, fingers curling into the fabric draped at your back. “You’re cold tonight,” Kylo states, his voice muffled against your skin, “I’ll have the thermal regulators adjusted.”