He feels it, the way he used to. The familiar overlap in the Force, her heart in his chest, quickening with fear. He's hurting her.

When she steps back, he regrets it with an intensity that borders on fatigue. His shoulders go slack. Maybe that's what this will be, a slow backing-away. The distance between them growing ever wider. “It's my name,” he says, so insistently it rings false. Kylo Ren is the name he made for himself, a name he deserves to take pride in, a name steeped in blood. It has brought troops into formation and Jedi to their knees. If she could see its effect, she wouldn't be so quick to dismiss it.

“There's no”—his mouth works uselessly, soundlessly, until he takes a breath—“Ben Solo. Not in your time. Not in mine.” He looks at her, knowing that should be the end of it.

“Don't you understand?” he asks.