feyreslover

[feyreslover]

Resurrect Me

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Resurrect Me

Chapter One: Could Never Be Heaven Without You

Sometimes, she wakes up with tears in her eyes, soft on her cheeks. Those mornings she feels empty, but in a different way. Wrung out but clean. Some catharsis, some joy played out in her subconscious, lost to the sky with the stars that fade in the morning light.

Crying as if she was ripped away too soon. Crying as if she longed to dream again.

"A vivid imagination," Dr. Thesan calls it. But she had seen the intake forms. Temporary psychosis with auditory and visual hallucinations (hypnagogic/hypnopompic), delusions of grandeur, signs of dissociative identity.

Danger to herself and others.

Feyre Archeron is just trying to keep it together - her middling corporate job, her failing relationship with Tamlin, her abysmal mental health. Most days, she feels lost, adrift, out of place. So who could blame her when she starts having dreams about the tall, dark and handsome man she saw one day at the ramen shop? As the world seems to be unraveling around her, Feyre gives way to her curiosity about the mysterious stranger.

This fic is for @climbthemountain2020 for pushing me to get the idea out of my head and forever encouraging my brainrot! All the love to her and @witch-and-her-witcher for the beta reads and hyping me up in my docs. For @officialfeysandweek!

Warnings: please read the tags, Feyre is having a bad mental health time and there are references to depression, hallucinations and suicide.

I'm trying something new!!! Hope you enjoy my slightly eerie and depressing modern coffee shop AU 😂 Chapter two will be coming later this week!

Read on AO3 and have a snippet under the cut.

The world outside the window is the color of melancholy. 

Feyre would know. She watches in a trance as rain pours onto concrete streets in heavy sheets.

Thunder rattles through the noodle shop in the heart of downtown, stacked ceramic bowls chiming against each other in its wake.

Feyre closes her eyes, letting the vibrations of the storm rumble through her body. 

Hoping maybe it will shake something free.

With a sigh, she opens them again. 

The grey-blue day is beautiful, even this dark and overcast. She’s sitting at the high-top bar against the window front of the shop, a giant pane of glass shot through with black steel brackets. Rain streams down the pane, each drop in its own path, a race to join the running rivers of the sidewalk.

Today everything is muted. Dampened. She sees the loveliness of the rain, and in the city the feeling of everything being rinsed clean. The sky opening up and letting go, doing what she longs to do. 

She finally moves her hands away from the hot bowl of ramen to grab her chopsticks, feeling the loss of heat immediately. Handmade ceramic, textured matte black with sharp ridges under her fingers. Chopsticks swirl the fatty broth, pulling noodles up from the dregs and into her mouth.

She walked the three blocks to get here. Usually a nice mid-day escape from work, but today she was soaked through in minutes. Thought it would still be worth it on block one. Now her red leather flats are ruined. Just her one small, colorful rebellion against the black and white corporate suits she’s forced to wear.

The AC blows on her back as she drips onto the tile floor, and all she can think is she’s going to catch cold.

She jolts in her seat at the blare of her alarm, loud and piercing. Scrambles to hit snooze, swears she’ll change that noise to something less…jarring. 

She was supposed to be back at work twenty minutes ago.

-Sorry, I think I’m coming down with something, I need to take the rest of today off.

Feyre fires off a text to her boss and promptly hits do not disturb. 

He’s going to kill her. Those mockups were due to him yesterday, and she’s supposed to present at Friday morning’s all hands meeting. But the dread of going back outweighs the dread of his disappointment, so she turns her phone screen facedown and drips on the floor some more.

You’re being ridiculous. 

She knows it’s what everyone in her life has been thinking. These trials and tribulations she’s created for herself. If you just would have accepted Tamlin’s proposal, you wouldn’t have to work. You could move into that nice loft uptown and become a lady who lunches.

Stark white everything and restoration hardware, designer heels and Birkin bags, late downtown dinners with CEOs and board members, an endless litany of don’t worry about that, love.

Instead, she and Tamlin are on an ever-extending break and she’s back to clipping coupons before she grocery shops.

He had repeated the offer to her a dozen times, in fights and over Michelin-star meals. “You should move in at least. You’re paying too much for that apartment, and you have to commute hours every day. Even if I just want to see you for dinner. Aren’t you the one who said we need to spend more time together?”

It isn't like the world of corporate marketing gives her any sense of meaning in her life. Every morning, she wakes up with a sick feeling of dread in the pit of her stomach. Sometimes she has to duck into the alley beside the vast skyscraper entrance, streams of black suits pouring in like lines of ants, and breathe in the smell of garbage and the city until it chases her inside.

Right now Feyre doesn’t have room for anything other than concentrating on this fine line between survival and keeping her mental health just stable enough to stop her from doing something rash.

But she is paying too much for her little hovel in Washington Heights. One bedroom, cockroaches bold as brass, the wet patch above her bed growing larger every week; an irregular tumor portending future disaster.

In a decisive movement, she picks up her bowl and slurps down the rich broth, letting it warm her through, deep into her belly. 

She’s chasing something - some feeling, some energy, some…serotonin. 

Lately her meds seem to cause her more trouble than good. She knows what Dr. Thesan would recommend: work up to the next dosage. 

He’ll want to know about her dreams. Sometimes he worries, other times he gives her a fond smile. “You have such a vivid imagination, Feyre. It’s a gift, really. But we need to make sure you can differentiate dreams from reality, hm?”

She’ll nod, of course. Disagreeing takes energy. Feyre’s in short supply these days. Neither is she exactly an expert as to what makes her feel happy. Whole. 

Broth sloshes around her stomach, rich and heavy. It’s her third bowl this week. And with every break of the chopsticks, she’s been quietly lying to herself about why she’s here again. 

The first time she saw him was last Monday. 1:03pm.

In her memory, she hears the bell ringing at the opening door as clear as day.

He’s all broad shoulders, in black from head to toe. A sweeping trench coat, Ralph Lauren maybe, fitted in the shoulders and waist, warm for the season but immaculate. His hair a soft blue-black. A silver ring glistening on his finger. The right, not the left. A long, confident stride up to the counter.

She had turned around on instinct, her mind barely catching up, when their eyes locked. Just for a split second. 

The sun had caught his face, all fine planes and angles, and she swore his eyes sparkled violet.

Even after a lifetime, she still hasn’t gotten used to that feeling. When color and form and line makes the breath catch in her throat. When everything aligns perfectly and she sees a vision in her mind, something that makes her fingers itch. 

But it’s been so long since she’s picked up a brush. 

So much heavy baggage there. Out of practice. Supplies hidden and drying out in closets and under her bed. Her tablet so old she can’t even get it to pair with her pencil. 

But that man in front of her, so stunning he shook old desires awake in her…Disappointment had bloomed in her chest as his eyes flickered away, like he hadn't even noticed the way his gaze had unmoored her. Like he was looking for someone else.

Hey, Archeron, you were almost just engaged, her voice whispered in her mind. 

But Feyre couldn’t get that thrill out of her mind. She was so hazy these days, just wading through the city streets like she was walking upstream, against the tide of bodies. Like she could just lift up her feet and be carried away. She longed for that, more than she would admit.

But when she saw those eyes…it was like something in her sparked alive again. Just for a minute.

He was just so damn beautiful.

Feyre blames the perfect rays of autumn light that were casting through the windows. 

That, and her period. It was due to start any day.

Since then, she hasn't been able to stop thinking about him. Even from just those too-short glimpses as he smiled politely at the hostess, grabbed a to-go bag and chopsticks, and left a healthy stack of bills as a tip. Shamelessly, she studied his profile all the way out the restaurant and down the sidewalk, moving as if in slow motion.

She’s come back every other day since.

You’re being stupid. Go home to your vibrating bullet. And maybe you could do your hair for once, go outside of your apartment after work hours, meet some people. Get it together, Feyre. You can’t lose it over a stranger.

What would she even say to him, if he did show up again? Come here often? Not as much as you’d think - I’d know because I’ve been watching you! Do you really think miso is superior to tonkotsu? Or, how do you feel about lost, unmotivated women drowning in clinical depression?

There’s no plan beyond seeing him again.

Feyre sighs, nibbling on bok choy, scanning the dining room for his face once more. 

Her life is too much of a mess, still barely treading water from her episodes, from the disorder of extricating herself from Tamlin, to do anything more than dream.

Still, something in her feels that beautiful face is worth the stretch in her going-out budget.

And besides, cool weather is coming. It is ramen season, after all. 

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[feyreslover]

I am Osama Abdel Salam Al-Qarnawi from the Gaza Strip, the area that was devastated by the recent war. We appeal to sympathetic individuals and organizations around the world to extend a helping hand. Your contributions will help us not only in restoring our homes but also in restoring our livelihoods, which is embodied in rebuilding our grocery store. Please enter and participate within my page 🌹🇵🇸🇵🇸😭😭😭 https://gofund.me/f52ba133

If you can donate, please do.

[feyreslover]

Melodies of You: Chapter 7

Cw: smut - masterlist

It had taken a full two weeks to build up the courage to stick the ultrasound photo onto her desk monitor at work. Every time Feyre reached for the picture, she hesitated, her fingers trembling, the weight of her decision pressing down. Knowing that her co-workers and her boss would inevitably notice the image as they passed by made her stomach twist with anxiety. What would they think? How would they react to this new reality in her life?

The thought of having to explain herself, to reveal something so intimate, filled her with uncertainty. But soon, she would need to tell her boss. There was no escaping that conversation. Her longing to see her child overpowered any prevailing anxieties she held. The soft curve of the image, the small outline of life, became her secret source of strength. A beacon of hope, of sorts. 

Feyre had never been particularly close with anyone at the art gallery, preferring the quiet solitude of her work. She kept her head down, focusing on assisting her boss rather than forming connections with the other employees. The gallery, with its clean lines and polished surfaces, felt like a sanctuary where she could disappear behind the art.

Now, the ultrasound photo disrupted that sanctuary. It was no longer just about her.

As she finally tacked the grainy image to the sleek black border of her screen, a flicker of pride sparked deep within her. 

That was her child. Her baby .

She took a slow breath, her gaze lingering on the bean-like shape in the image. Her mind whirred with a thousand things she needed to do—unsent emails piling up, urgent calls nagging at the back of her mind—but she couldn’t tear her eyes away. It was as if time had paused in the presence of this tiny, fragile being. Lifting a trembling hand, Feyre traced the delicate outline on the screen, feeling a swell of emotion. She could still feel the awe that had washed over her during the ultrasound, the flutter of disbelief and joy blending into something she could barely describe.

"Hello? Feyre?" The sudden voice behind her shattered the silence of her reverie.

She spun around in her chair, eyes wide as she came face to face with her boss. The older woman stood with her hands firmly planted on her hips, her sharp gaze fixed on Feyre with a mixture of impatience and concern. Her eyebrows knitted together as she studied Feyre’s face.

"Are you feeling alright?" her boss asked, her voice laced with suspicion. Her eyes flickered toward the monitor behind Feyre, and in an instant, they widened slightly as she registered the ultrasound photo now taped to the screen.

"Oh," Feyre muttered, her throat tight, suddenly aware of the shift in the space. This wasn’t how she imagined breaking the news.

Realising Feyre wasn’t going to offer more, her boss pushed on, her voice laced with a mix of hesitation and forced cheerfulness. 

"Congratulations? I’m assuming you’re the one pregnant. Though I didn’t know you were married—well, not that it matters—"

Feyre could feel her chest tighten at the remark, the words lingering in the air. There was a brief pause, the kind that felt far too long, filling the space between them with tension. Her boss’s attempt to soften the situation had only made it worse.

"No, it's okay," Feyre cut in quickly, her voice thin but firm, not wanting to prolong the awkwardness. Her words rushed out as if trying to patch a tear in the fabric of the conversation. She wasn't ready to explain her life, her choices—not now, not like this.

“Not married, just pregnant.”

Her boss seemed to exhale in relief, her stiff posture relaxing slightly as she took a step closer. There was something motherly in the way she placed a warm, yet firm hand on Feyre’s shoulder, fingers pressing gently but with purpose. The touch, while brief, was grounding in a way Feyre hadn’t expected. She could feel the heat from her boss’s hand seep through her blouse, a reminder that she wasn’t alone in this moment, no matter how overwhelming it felt.

"You’ll be fine," her boss said softly, her voice carrying a calm authority. "It’s a big change, but you can manage. You always do." Her tone was reassuring, but Feyre detected the subtle hint of concern underlying her words. It was as if she was trying to be supportive while still processing what this would mean for the gallery, for the work they had ahead.

Feyre nodded, her mouth dry, her thoughts swirling. She wanted to believe her boss’s words, to trust that everything would somehow fall into place. But the reality was, the weight of her situation was starting to settle in—how much this would change, how much she hadn’t prepared for.

Her boss’s eyes flicked once more to the ultrasound. “Is it... early days?” she asked cautiously, her hand slipping from Feyre’s shoulder.

Feyre swallowed, her hand instinctively brushing over her stomach, though she wasn’t yet showing. 

“Yeah. Just had the first scan,” she said softly, her voice barely above a whisper.

There was a pause as her boss absorbed this. "Well," she said, straightening up, "let me know if you need anything. We’ll figure out how to adjust your workload when the time comes."

The words hung between them, and for the first time, Feyre realised how much her life was about to shift. The gallery had always been her refuge, a place where she could immerse herself in art and forget everything else. But now, even here, the edges of her personal life were creeping in, impossible to ignore. 

She silently wished that her asking for a raise wouldn't be seen as rude. 

Her boss gave her a final nod, her lips pressing into a thin smile before turning on her heel and heading toward her office, leaving Feyre alone once again.

As the clicking of her bosses feet on the concrete floor became more muted, Feyre sat still for a moment, the room feeling heavier than before. She stared at the ultrasound photo, her fingers brushing against its edge. For so long, her life had been about quiet survival, keeping her head down, pushing through the days unnoticed. Now, there was no hiding—not from herself, not from the people around her.

She was bringing new life into the world, and with that came responsibilities she hadn’t fully grasped until now.

Her phone buzzed on her desk, pulling her from her thoughts. She glanced at the screen. 

It was a message from Rhys.

Her thumb hovered over the screen, the weight of the future pressing down on her. He’d, thankfully, understood Feyre’s unspoken need for space after their last meeting, resorting to only messaging her insignificant, yet thoughtful, messages since they last met. She was grateful, ultimately, that he hadn't pushed her boundaries.

She would be lying to herself, however, if some part of her didn't wish  for him to ask them to meet up again. Feyre sighed heavily, realising their next meeting would have to be on her initiative. Rhys, ever the gentleman, would probably never be as direct as he was when he invited her to his family dinner—their third time meeting.

Unlocking her phone to read the message, a smile made its way onto her face, unable to stop the upward turning of the corners of her mouth.  

Rhys: Have you eaten lunch today?? I bet the Baby is hungry. 

As she reread it, a feeling of warmth and hesitation flooded through her. It was still surreal, this new layer between them, and yet he used the word so easily, like he’d already claimed his place in this part of her life. His concern for her had been there from the beginning, subtle but undeniable. It wasn’t just about the baby, though she knew that was a part of it. 

Rhys cared about her—about them —in a way that was steady, almost protective, without ever feeling suffocating. 

She'd noticed his way of making her feel like she wasn’t in this alone, even if she hadn’t quite figured out what “this” was yet.

Feyre sighed, her mind swirling with the weight of everything unspoken between them. His gentle prodding about meals, the casual way he checked in on her, it all meant something deeper. And it made her want to believe, just for a moment, that maybe they could figure this out together.

Feyre: Yes, I’ve eaten. The baby, by extension, has eaten too, so no need to worry.

She hesitated. It was easier to brush off his concern with humour, to keep things light. But even now, the weight of their situation pressed down on her, no matter how much she tried to pretend otherwise. The baby wasn’t just her responsibility anymore—Rhys had made that clear without needing to say it outright.

He’s not going anywhere, she reminded herself, but the thought didn’t erase her doubts entirely. I hope.

Rhys: Good. Both of you need to be well taken care of.

His words sent a strange mix of warmth and anxiety through her. He was trying, always trying, and a part of her wanted to let him in completely, to believe he was as ready for this as he seemed. But could she trust it? Could she trust him ?

Feyre: You’re not going to hover over us the whole time, right?

Rhys: Only a little.

Rhys: ;)

She smiled at his response, a soft chuckle escaping her. It was Rhys all over, she came to realise through their text conversations—caring and slightly overbearing. Even when they first met, he'd been accommodating to her vulnerability when things got intimate.

***

The skin-to-skin contact sent a shiver throughout her body,  fully unguarded under his dark eyes. Inhaling deeply, the man took in her naked form, desire coating the air between them. 

Making eye contact with him once again, Feyre sent him a smirk, her forwardness shocking herself as the man took it as a signal to continue.  

His warm hands wrapped around her smooth thighs, slowly pulling her until she reached the end of his bed. Spreading her legs open further, Feyre’s cheeks warmed as the man dropped to his knees, bringing his head between her thighs. 

At the first swipe of his tongue, Feyre dropped her head back, already lost in the pleasure from the single stroke. 

Wrapping her legs around his shoulders , she reached her arms down, raking and pulling at his hair as he continued. 

Gazing up at his ceiling, a breathy moan escaped her slightly swollen lips as the man brought her closer to release. Grinding herself on his mouth, Feyre allowed herself to let go, moaning louder as she finally came, throbbing on his lips. 

Looking down her body, she met his dark gaze, pupils dilated as he took in her satisfied expression. 

Removing her legs from his shoulders, she tucked her knees under her as she sat up, reaching up to kiss him once more. Kissing her back with equal enthusiasm, only stopping momentarily to let Feyre lift up his shirt, the man ravished her completely, his hands roaming up her ribs and breasts. fumbling with his buckle, Feyre  broke their kiss, laughing at herself as she failed to remove his belt. Finally shucking off the mans pants, she regarded the bulge of his boxers, her mouth becoming dry as he was finally naked. stroking himself twice, the man reached over to his bedside table, ripping open the foil of the condom before rolling it onto his length.

Once again Feyre leaned back, silently waiting as he positioned himself on top of her, one hand on his headboard for support. 

“Are you okay?”

“Yeah” Replied Feyre, slightly breathless.

Feyre woke with a start, her chest rising and falling rapidly as she blinked into the darkness, the remnants of the dream still clinging to her like a heavy fog. Her heart pounded in her ears, the sensation of whatever she'd been feeling from in her dream still there, leaving her breathless. The weight of it pressed down on her, making it hard to distinguish between what was real and what had only been a figment of her subconscious. a sense of shame seeped its way into her mind. she wasn't supposed to be thinking about Rhys like that. They were a team, not whatever they'd been on that fateful night. 

Pulling the covers closer around herself, she tried to focus on the present, on the reality that surrounded her now. The steady sound of her own breathing, the faint hum of the night outside, the soft rustle of the wind through the trees—it was all calming, grounding her back into the real world.

***

As Feyre neared the end of her first trimester, a wave of relief washed over her. Her anxiety, which had been a constant companion, finally began to ease as her concerns about the baby's health started to dim.

The first trimester was always the riskiest, she remembered her doctor saying to her at the last appointment.

But now, as she crossed into safer territory, the tension in her chest began to unwind. She pressed a hand to her belly, feeling the faint swell beneath her fingers. Her baby, so small but already so loved, was growing, thriving. The doctor had reassured her that things were looking good, the ultrasound being physical evidence of that. Her body was doing what it was supposed to, and for the first time in weeks, Feyre allowed herself to hope without hesitation.

As she looked out the window, watching the soft afternoon light filter through the trees, Feyre allowed herself to breathe deeply for the first time in what felt like forever. She had made it this far. 

***

Laying on the plastic covering, wrapped over the cracked pleather fabric of the chair, Feyre wondered if she’d ever get used to the sight of her child on the doctor's monitor. She certainly hoped she’d get used to the ultrasound gel, its cold temperature shocking her somehow even more than the first time. 

Sitting on her left, Rhys’ gaze lingered on the screen, one hand resting on the chair, not touching Feyre. Just resting.

“Well,” Said Madja as she completed her final checks, pulling the probing machine away from Feyre’s gel-covered abdomen. “Everything seems okay. From my perspective, it looks like you're growing a perfectly healthy baby, about to enter the second trimester.”

Ripping off a couple of paper towel squares, Madja handed them over, bidding them goodbye with a small smile before leaving the room, allowing Feyre a chance to clean herself up.

Leaning back in his chair, Rhys remained silent, seemingly content on waiting for Feyre to finish. 

“Our baby’s the size of a plum,” Rhys suddenly announced, a small smile tugging at the corners of his lips as he glanced at Feyre.

She blinked, caught off guard. “What?”

“One of the posters in the waiting room,” he explained, amusement dancing in his eyes. “It said our baby is the size of a plum right now.”

Feyre let out a soft laugh, leaning back against the chair, processing the thought. “Huh, that's... cool.”

“And by 40 weeks,” Rhys continued, his tone becoming more animated, “they’ll be the size of a pumpkin—”

“Okay, enough of that.” Moaned Feyre as she cut him off, throwing him a look of mock horror. “I’m already trying to wrap my head around giving birth to anything bigger than a plum, and now you want me to picture a pumpkin?”

Rhys chuckled, moving his chair closer beside her. “It’s just crazy to think about how much they’ll grow,” he murmured, his voice softer now, filled with a quiet wonder.

Feyre smiled despite herself, covering his hand with hers. “Yeah... it is.” But the thought of a pumpkin-sized baby still made her shudder slightly.

Another nurse suddenly opened the door, her movements brisk and efficient, offering them a polite yet curt smile. It was the kind of smile that carried the weight of too many long hours, an unspoken message that their appointment was over. Feyre blinked, momentarily jarred by the abruptness, and without a word, she and Rhys were ushered out into the cool evening air.

As they stepped outside, the sterile scent of the medical center was quickly replaced by the crisp, clean bite of early autumn. Feyre paused on the sidewalk, her breath visible in the fading light as she waited for Rhys to catch up, watching as he gently pulled the door shut behind them. The click of the closing door seemed louder in the stillness of the moment, a small sound that felt final in its own way.

She tilted her head back slightly, inhaling deeply, the cool air refreshing as it filled her lungs. The distant sounds of the city buzzed around them, cars passing, people walking by, but for a brief moment, the world felt muted.

“Seems like I’m somewhat okay with this whole ‘growing a baby’ thing,” Feyre remarked with a half-smile, her tone light, though there was an underlying note of disbelief, as if she still couldn’t quite believe it herself.

Rhys stepped closer, his hand finding its usual place at the small of her back, his touch warm through her coat. His gaze softened, eyes dark and reassuring as they locked onto hers. “You shouldn’t have ever doubted yourself,” he said, his voice gentle but filled with conviction. There was a quiet strength in the way he spoke, as if the very idea of her not being capable was something he simply couldn’t accept.

Feyre’s smile widened for a second, but it didn’t quite reach her eyes. She shrugged, her breath coming out in a slow exhale, misting in the chilly air. “Yeah... force of habit, I guess,” she admitted, her voice quieter now, almost as if she were confessing a secret. Her fingers absentmindedly brushed over her stomach, the action subtle but revealing the deep connection already forming.

Sensing their conversation was drawing to a close, she blurted out before she could second-guess herself.

"Would you maybe want to grab some—" "I was wondering if—"

They both stopped, speaking over each other. A blush crept up Feyre's cheeks as she glanced at Rhys, a sly expression painting his face.

"Sorry, what were you saying?" Rhys asked, his eyes widening just a touch as they locked onto hers.

"It's nothing, really," she mumbled, embarrassment creeping into her voice.

But Rhys leaned in slightly, the corners of his lips twitching as if he were holding back a grin. "I insist. You spoke first."

"Rhys, it's fine," she tried to deflect.

His voice lowered, sombre yet firm. "I want to hear it from your lips."

Feyre suddenly found it hard to breathe as she took in the intensity of Rhys words, what he wanted. What, Feyre silently admitted to herself, they both wanted. 

Gathering what little courage she could, Feyre finally asked, "Rhys, would you like to have dinner with me?"

A small grin tugged at his lips as she added, "To feed the baby, of course."

There was something comfortable, almost domestic, in their banter—a strange contrast to the whirlwind of emotions that followed their every meeting. Still, the familiar feeling tugged at her, that flicker of something more, something neither of them seemed ready to touch. 

Not yet, at least. 

“For our baby?” Rhys replied, after a beat. “ Of course.”

***

As they settled into the car, Rhys glanced over at Feyre with a casual smile. “Would you mind if I put on the radio?” he asked, his fingers hovering over the controls.

Feyre, still processing the emotions from the day, looked up from her hands resting on her lap. The gentle hum of the engine and the faint rustle of the wind against the windows were the only sounds filling the quiet space. She offered a small, relaxed smile and shook her head. “No, I’m cool,” she replied, her voice carrying a hint of the contentment she felt after their evening together.

“I know a spot not far from here. Do you trust my judgement if I said it's probably my favourite food ever, save for my mothers cooking?” Rhys asked, his voice low, a teasing glint in his eyes as he glanced over at Feyre.

She hesitated for a second, biting her lip before answering. “Uh, sure.”

Rhys smiled, his hands steady on the wheel. “You’re not allergic to anything, right?” he asked. 

Feyre shook her head, her fingers idly picking at her nails, a nervous habit. She shifted in her seat, watching the blur of passing people and city lights through the car window, her mind wandering. The soft hum of the engine and the faint sound of street noise filled the silence between them.

After a few minutes, they slowed to a stop, pulling up to a curb beneath the soft glow of streetlights. Rhys turned off the engine and looked at her with a grin, anticipation written all over his face.

As the car came to a stop, Feyre glanced out the window, trying to get a sense of where they were. The quiet street seemed different from the busy city she’d been staring at moments ago—trees lined the sidewalk, their leaves rustling gently in the evening breeze. 

Rhys unbuckled his seatbelt and turned to her, the corners of his mouth curving into a grin. “Come on,” he urged, nodding toward the door. “Trust me, you’ll like this.”

Feyre hesitated, her fingers still nervously fidgeting with the edge of her sleeve. But something about the way he looked at her—calm, confident, as if he knew this was exactly what she needed—eased her nerves. She opened the door and stepped out into the cool evening air, taking in the peaceful surroundings.

Rhys was already beside her, offering a hand as they crossed the street. Feyre didn’t miss the way his fingers brushed hers, lingering for a second longer than necessary before he pulled her gently toward a narrow alleyway. It was lined with string lights that twinkled above them like tiny stars, casting a magical glow over the cobblestone path.

As they walked, the faint aroma of freshly baked bread and roasted coffee filled the air, and Feyre’s curiosity piqued. She stole a glance at Rhys, who was watching her reaction with a quiet smile, clearly enjoying the surprise he was about to reveal.

They stopped in front of a small, hidden restaurant tucked between two buildings, overlooking a river that wound itself throughout the city. It had a charming, old-world feel, with ivy creeping up the brick walls and candles flickering in the windows. Rhys turned to her, eyes gleaming with what Feyre could only assume was excitement. “This is the spot,” he said softly. “Best kept secret in town.”

A faded, paint-chipped sign hung over the doorway. Sevenda’s, it said. A spiced scent filled the air as the pair stepped in the restaraunt, Feyre suddenly feeling a sense of warmth as a heater blew warm air to battle with the cooling climate outside. Potted plants hung at different lengths throughout the restaurant, thin leaves growing in spontaneous ways over the cracked, exposed bricks. 

As Feyre observed the intimate space, the warm glow from the candles dancing off the walls, an older woman emerged from the kitchen. Her movements were quick but graceful, balancing multiple dishes in both hands as though she had been doing it for years. The savoury aroma of food followed her, filling the air. With practised ease, she disposed of the plates onto a table where a group of expectant patrons eagerly awaited their meal, their faces lighting up as the dishes were placed before them.

The woman, her brown hair speckled with white strands which was pulled back in a loose bun, glanced up for a brief moment, her gaze catching Feyre’s before sliding to Rhys, her eyes widening in recognition.

“Rhys!” her warm, melodic voice called out, cutting through the quiet hum of the restaurant, a broad smile lighting up her face. “It is so nice to see you.”

Rhys smiled warmly in return, his eyes bright with familiarity. “It’s been a while, Sevenda.”

The woman, Sevenda, reached out and clasped his hand affectionately. “Too long,” she said, her tone teasing but kind. “Please, sit,” she urged, gesturing to a cosy table near the window, draped in soft candlelight. “Shall I grab a bottle for you two? I still have that red you like.”

Rhys shook his head with a chuckle. “That won’t be necessary tonight. Just water will be fine.”

Sevenda raised a curious eyebrow but nodded. “As you wish.” Her gaze shifted to Feyre, her expression softening into a warm, welcoming smile. “Hello, I’m Sevenda,” she said, her voice gentle as she offered a hand.

Feyre smiled back, shaking her hand. “Feyre,” she replied, a little caught off guard by the personal warmth radiating from the woman.

“Rhys has been coming here since he was just a boy,” Sevenda explained, pride evident in her tone as she glanced fondly at him. “Used to run around my kitchen, asking questions about every dish,” she laughed, shaking her head at the memory. “I’m glad he’s brought you here.”

Feyre looked over at Rhys, surprised at this glimpse into his past. 

Rhys shrugged with a smile. “It’s my favourite spot. Feels like home.”

Sevenda clapped her hands together lightly. “Well, let me grab you two some water, and I’ll be back with a little something special. Don’t go anywhere!” With a wink, she disappeared back into the kitchen.

Feyre watched her go, feeling more at ease as the warm, homely atmosphere settled around them.

As Sevenda disappeared into the kitchen, Feyre turned her attention back to Rhys, curiosity piqued. "So, you’ve been coming here since you were a kid?" she asked, her voice soft but full of interest.

Rhys leaned back in his chair, a nostalgic smile playing on his lips. "Yeah, my family used to come here all the time. Sevenda practically watched my sister and I grow up." He glanced around the room, his eyes tracing the familiar space. "This place was a little escape for me when things got... chaotic

"

Feyre tilted her head, intrigued by this rare glimpse into his past. "Chaotic?"

Rhys hesitated for a moment, as if weighing how much to reveal. "You know how it is... family expectations, responsibilities. This was the one place where I didn’t have to worry about any of that."

Feyre nodded, understanding all too well. She opened her mouth to say something, but just then, Sevenda returned with two glasses of water, placing them on the table with a knowing smile.

“I’ve got something cooking just for you,” Sevenda said with a kind smile, leaning in slightly. “You’ll love it. And you, Feyre,” she added, her eyes twinkling, “you’ll see why he keeps coming back.”

Feyre smiled, touched by the warmth in Sevenda’s voice, but her mind still lingered on Rhys’ words. There was more to him than she had thought—layers she hadn’t even begun to unravel.

Sevenda left them once more, and Feyre leaned in, her curiosity getting the better of her. “You've never really said anything about your family”

Rhys looked down at his glass, tracing the rim with his thumb. “No, I don’t. It’s complicated.”

Feyre raised an eyebrow, her voice soft but probing. “Complicated how?”

He sighed, running a hand through his hair. “My father... he had a lot of expectations for me. I was supposed to follow a certain path, one I didn’t exactly agree with.”

Feyre stayed silent for a moment, letting his words sink in. She could see the tension in his expression, the way his past still haunted him. Without thinking, she reached across the table, resting her hand gently on his.

“You don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to, I haven't said anything really about my own.” she said softly.

Rhys looked at her, his gaze softening as he squeezed her hand lightly. “Thank you,” he murmured. "But... It helps. Talking to you."

Before she could respond, the smell of something delicious wafted through the air, and Sevenda reappeared, holding a steaming dish in her hands. “Here we go,” she announced proudly, placing the plate between them. “My signature—cooked with a lot of love.”

Rhys chuckled, the tension breaking as he gestured to the food. “This, Feyre, is what makes this place so special.”

Feyre glanced at the dish, her curiosity mixing with excitement. "Well, I’m ready to be impressed."

***

After their dinner, which had far exceeded her expectations, Sevenda had practically shooed Feyre out the door, waving off her attempt to pay with a firm refusal. Despite Feyre’s protests, the older woman had only laughed, giving her a warm hug and sending them on their way. With her stomach full, Feyre had hardly expected the evening to continue, but Rhys had asked if they could swing by his place before he dropped her off.

He’d been cryptic about it, teasing her with the promise of something to show her, and that curiosity had won her over.

Now, as she stood outside his townhouse, Feyre felt a sudden sense of awe, realising just how much she had underestimated Rhys’ wealth. The last time she’d been here, she hadn’t truly taken in the place, too tipsy and caught up in her own whirlwind, her focus only on him, not the house. But tonight, in the cool night air, with her mind clear, she finally noticed everything—the elegant facade, the sprawling windows framed with dark wood, the carefully manicured garden that lined the walkway. It was understated, yet unmistakably luxurious, a quiet kind of opulence that spoke of money. And class.

The soft glow of the porch light illuminated the stone steps leading to the front door, casting long shadows across the intricate wrought-iron detailing of the gate. The house had a certain warmth to it, despite its size and grandeur, making her feel strangely comfortable, yet undeniably aware of just how different their worlds were.

Rhys, standing beside her, seemed to catch the shift in her demeanour. He glanced over at her with a small, knowing smile. “I forgot how little you saw of this place last time,” he said, his tone laced with amusement, clearly recalling that night.

Feyre smirked, shaking her head slightly. “Yeah... I was a bit distracted.” She couldn’t help the heat that crept up her neck at the memory of how single-minded she’d been, but tonight felt different. Intentional, more intimate even. 

“Come on,” Rhys said, his voice soft as he led her toward the door. “I think you’ll like what I want to show you.”

Just as they approached the front door, Rhys hesitated, his hand hovering over the handle. His brow furrowed for a moment before he turned to Feyre. “Actually, here,” he said softly, pulling out his key and placing it in her hand. “You can let yourself in and wait in the living room. I just need to check on something in the garage.”

Feyre looked down at the key, feeling the weight of it in her palm, a subtle yet significant gesture of trust. Before she could respond, Rhys hesitated again, as if debating something. Then, in one smooth motion, he leaned down, pressing a quick but tender kiss to the top of her head. The warmth of the gesture caught her off guard, sending a flutter through her chest.

Without another word, he turned and walked toward the side of the house, disappearing into the shadows as he made his way to the garage. Feyre stood there for a moment, feeling the lingering touch of his lips and trying to process the quiet intimacy of the moment.

The cool night air wrapped around her as she shifted her gaze back to the front door. With the keys now in her grip, she stepped forward, slipping the key into the lock. A soft, mechanical beep sounded as the lock disengaged, the door giving way with a gentle push.

Stepping inside, she was greeted by the subtle scent of salt and something faintly familiar—his cologne, perhaps—filling the air. The house felt different than it had the last time she'd been here, more personal. The soft hum of silence enveloped her as she stepped further in, the plush carpet beneath her feet absorbing the sound of her movements.

Feyre paused in the entryway for a moment, taking in the elegant yet understated décor. Large windows allowed the moonlight to spill in, casting a silvery glow across the sleek furniture and polished wood floors. It was modern, yet cosy, with thoughtful touches that hinted at the man behind the space.

“Rhys!” rang a feminine voice throughout his house, a slight tone of urgency lacing her call. “I've been waiting ages for you to get home. Why didn't you answer your phone-”

Suddenly, Feyre was met with the sight of the most gorgeous woman she’d ever seen. Taller than Feyre, the woman stood strong, a cascade of golden curls flowing down her tanned shoulders. In her sleeveless top, Feyre noticed her muscled biceps, a collection of small tattoos covering them.  The woman's brows furrowed as she took in Feyre, her mouth opening and closing as if she didn't know what to say.  

After a second, the woman spoke up. “You're not Rhys”

“Sorry to disappoint.” replied Feyre as her cheeks warmed, feeling herself wanting to shrink in a corner at the woman's clear disappointment. 

In a beat, the woman's eyes widened as the flickered between Feyre and her stomach, seemingly recognising her. 

“Oh, Feyre right?. Where are my manners? Are you feeling okay? Rhys isn't here but if you need anything I can probably accommodate. Unless it's man related. I don't know anything man related, I don't even date them-”

As the woman swooped her in with a borderline bone-crushing hug, Feyre found herself to be paralysed, unable to decide what to do with her arms. Eventually, she decided to lamely return the energy, lightly wrapping her arms around the stranger. The stranger, who Feyre realised suddenly, knew her name. 

Trying to reel in as much awkwardness as she could, She reciprocated the greeting with a muffled Hi, still trapped by the woman's toned arms. Giving her one more powerful squeeze, she pulled back after what seemed like an eternity, her eyes roaming over Feyres  slightly shocked features. 

“I’m Morrigan- Rhys' cousin, but you can just call me Mor, everyone does. Well, except for my father, but he doesn't talk to me anyway so-”

“Are you done talking Feyres ear off? Or should I come back in five?” questioned Rhys, cutting the taller of the two off as they both swirled their heads towards him, leaning on the threshold of the  doorway. 

Feyre sent a silent thank you to Rhys as the woman, Mor, finally released her, storming over to him.

“Oh, there you are. Don’t you know how to answer the phone?” Mor’s voice rang out, sharp and teasing. Her vibrant energy seemed to fill the space, a playful smile tugging at her lips as she placed her hands on her hips, feigning exasperation.

Rhys chuckled, the sound low and warm as he turned to greet her. “Always dramatic,” he muttered with amusement, pulling Mor into a quick side hug. She returned the gesture with a tight squeeze before quickly pulling away, her attention shifting to Feyre with curiosity and a glint of mischief in her eyes.

“I’m sorry about Mor,” Rhys said, his gaze sliding back to Feyre with a wry smile. “I knew I’d regret it the moment I gave her a spare key to my house.”

Mor raised an eyebrow, clearly unbothered by his words, and leaned casually against the back of the couch, holding a drastically different enerngy than she had moments beforehand. “I’ve heard a lot about you,” she added, her tone light but her gaze curious as it lingered on Feyre, as if trying to read her in the brief moment of silence.

Trying to hide her surprise, Feyre blinked before replying with a slight smile. “Really?”

Mor’s lips curled into a playful frown as she crossed her arms, shaking her head dramatically. “No,” she deadpanned, drawing out the word with exaggerated disappointment. “Rhys here has been as loud as a brick wall about you. Lívia and I have been trying for weeks to get any information out of him.” Her eyes flicked to Rhys with a mock glare before returning to Feyre, her grin widening. “But he’s stubborn, that one.”

Feyre’s cheeks warmed slightly under Mor’s teasing gaze, her surprise giving way to amusement. She could feel the tension easing as Mor’s natural charm and energy filled the room. There was a familiarity between Mor and Rhys, the kind that only came from years of shared experiences, and Feyre couldn’t help but feel intrigued by the dynamic.

Rhys gave an exaggerated sigh, shaking his head as if he were long-suffering. “I’ve told you everything you need to know,” he said, casting Mor a playful look before turning his full attention back to Feyre, the warmth in his eyes unmistakable.

“Everything?” Mor shot back, arching a brow. “You’ve told us nothing.”

Feyre chuckled softly, her nerves slowly ebbing away. Mor’s candidness was refreshing, and there was something about her infectious personality that made Feyre feel... welcomed, in a strange yet comforting way.

Noticing Feyres' slightly uncomfortable energy that lingered, Mor continued, giving Rhys a pointed look.

“Anyway, I'll leave you guys to it. Rhys, message me later.”  

Turning back to Feyre, Mor’s expression turned bashful. “Feyre, it was so nice finally meeting you. I know we will be great friends.”

A feeling of warmth spread throughout her body as she replied. “It was nice meeting you too, Mor.”

With a kiss to Rhys’ cheek, Mor was gone, softly closing the front door with a click. 

“I'm sorry about her, boundaries tend to be hard for her to understand sometimes.” said Rhys, glancing at his door, before returning his eyes back to Feyre, a sheepish expression coating his face. 

“It's okay.”

Turning her head, Feyre noticed a collection of framed photographs covering the hallway walls. Stepping closer, she surveyed  them, her eyes catching on a particularly bigger one, in comparison to its neighbours . 

A young girl, no more than twelve, stood at the subject of the photograph. Though the image was monochrome, it still managed to capture the warmth of her laughter, her head tipped back in a moment of pure joy. Her features, a striking reflection of Rhys’, led Feyre to the undeniable conclusion that she must be related to him.

“That's Lívia, my sister.” said Rhys from behind her, his voice laced with a softer tone.

Turning around to face him, Feyre replied. “ You two look so similar. She's beautiful.”

His eyes softened as they lingered on the photograph, filled with warmth and affection. “I know. She’s the spitting image of our mother.” Feyre could see the love radiating from him, a quiet devotion that spoke volumes about his bond with his sister. A sinking feeling settled in Feyre’s stomach. A sibling bond... something so simple, yet so out of reach for her.

“Your family has good genes.” noted Feyre, offhandedly.

“Our child will be thankful.” 

They fell into a comfortable silence, Feyre’s head bowed to the floor as she mulled over his words.  

“I feel stupid for not asking this earlier, but do you have any siblings?” Rhys asked after a moment of silence.

“I, uh...” Feyre hesitated. “I have two sisters, but we haven’t been in touch for years.”

Rhys nodded, his gaze lingering on her as she gave him a vacant look, her eyes silently pleading for the conversation to shift away from painful memories.

“There’s quite a lot we don’t know about each other,” he said softly, trying to bridge the gap.

“Yeah,” Feyre agreed, her voice barely above a whisper, her thoughts clearly elsewhere.

“I’m a photographer,” Rhys offered, his tone lighter, hoping to draw her back. Her eyebrows shot up in surprise, a flicker of curiosity replacing the blankness in her expression.

“What?” she asked, glancing around.

He smiled, a little shyly, as her eyes travelled to the photographs on the walls. “Wait... are these all yours?” she continued, her gaze now fully absorbed by the images.

“Uh, yeah,” he admitted, rubbing the back of his neck, clearly unused to the attention.

Feyre stepped closer to the nearest picture, eyes wide with appreciation. “Rhys... these are amazing,” she breathed, awe lacing her words.

Rhys smiled, a hint of pride lighting up his face. Suddenly, she remembered the reason why she was there. 

“What did you want to show me?” she asked, her voice softer now, as though the photographs had made her see him in a new light.

Pulling his shoulders back, Rhys gave her a knowing smile. 

“Follow me”

***

The first thing Feyre noticed as she stepped into the room was the faint smell of fresh paint lingering in the air, mixed with the scent of something soft and powdery—almost like talcum powder. It was subtle, but it hit her immediately, sharpening her senses. As her eyes adjusted to the warm, golden glow cast by the setting sun, streaming through the windows, she stopped in her tracks. It was as if all the air had been sucked out of the room.

The walls were painted a soft, buttery yellow, the kind of colour that exuded warmth and peace, wrapping the space in a gentle embrace. The sunlight filtering through the windows gave everything a dreamlike quality, illuminating the room with a golden hue. Feyre’s breath caught in her throat as she took it all in. It wasn’t just any room. This was a nursery.

Her eyes swept across the space, drawn to the delicate touches. Framed pictures of whimsical animals—tiny elephants, giraffes, and birds—hung on the walls, each one painted in soft pastels, their playful expressions bringing life to the room. Next to one wall sat a white bassinet, its edges adorned with a pale yellow blanket, neatly draped over the side. The sight of it sent a wave of emotion through her, an overwhelming realisation settling deep in her chest.

To the left of the bassinet was a small wardrobe, its door slightly ajar, revealing tiny baby clothes folded neatly inside. Soft onesies and knit sweaters in gentle hues of cream and lavender peeked out, each piece more delicate than the next. Above the wardrobe, a mobile hung from the ceiling, its small plush stars and moons swaying gently in the evening breeze drifting through the window.

Feyre swallowed hard, her hand instinctively moving to rest on her belly, the reality of it all sinking in. This wasn’t just an abstract idea anymore—it was real. She could almost imagine their baby lying in the bassinet, the soft sounds of quiet breaths filling the room.

Her gaze lingered on the details, the careful planning that had gone into this space. The nursery was beautiful, peaceful, but more than that, it was filled with a love that seemed to radiate from every corner. She felt a lump form in her throat.

Behind her, she heard the soft creak of the door, and she turned just in time to see Rhys re-enter the room, his expression unreadable as he watched her take it all in.

“I wanted to show you this,” Rhys said quietly, his voice softer than usual. “I’ve been working on it for a while… for when we’re ready.”

Feyre looked at him, her eyes wide and glassy with emotion. “You did this?” she whispered, her voice thick with awe.

Rhys nodded, stepping forward slowly, his gaze shifting between her and the nursery. “Yeah,” he murmured. “I wanted it to be perfect… for the baby. Mor helped, she's good for things like that” His voice caught on the last word, a mixture of pride and vulnerability seeping through.

Feyre’s eyes were still roaming the room, her fingers brushing lightly over the edge of the crib, the softness of the blankets inside. She could feel her heart swelling, a deep sense of warmth spreading through her chest. But then, her thoughts shifted, and she turned back to him, her brow furrowing slightly. “Mor knows?” she asked, her voice a touch uncertain, the realization sinking in that others were already aware of something so deeply personal between the two of them.

Rhys rubbed the back of his neck nervously, a sheepish smile tugging at his lips as he avoided her gaze for a moment. “Uh, my entire family knows,” he admitted, his tone apologetic. “They found out… not the way I was hoping.”

“Right,” Feyre replied softly, trying to hide her anxiety as she processed his words. She could see the tension in his posture, the slight way his shoulders hunched as if he were bracing for something. But beneath all that, there was also relief in his eyes, as if he was glad the secret was no longer his to carry alone. He had a support system.

Feyre took a deep breath, her heart swelling as she turned her attention back to the room. "It’s beautiful," she whispered with a nod, barely able to keep her emotions in check.

Rhys stepped closer, placing a hand on her back, his thumb grazing her spine gently. "I hoped you’d like it," he said softly, his voice laced with quiet relief.

Rhys, I...” Feyre’s voice faltered as she took in the room once more, her hand resting protectively over her stomach. “I don’t think I can pay you back for this,” she whispered, her voice trembling slightly, heavy with the weight of emotion.

Rhys shook his head immediately, stepping closer to her, his expression soft yet firm. “Nonsense, Feyre,” he said quietly, his eyes searching hers, filled with understanding. “You don’t have to worry about paying me back. This isn’t something that needs repayment.”

Feyre bit her lip, her brows knitting together as she turned to face him fully. The gravity of everything hit her at once—the nursery, the baby, the quiet, steady support he had offered since the beginning. She wondered if Rhys would be okay with her staying in his house for the first few weeks after the baby was born, as her current attempts to find a better apartment, one closer to his house, were beginning to seem futile. 

“I’m serious,” she began again, her voice stronger this time, though still wavering with emotion. “You’ve done so much already... for me, for us. And I—” She stopped, struggling to find the words, to explain the overwhelming gratitude and guilt gnawing at her.

Rhys tilted his head, his eyes softening with affection as he closed the space between them. He reached out, gently brushing a lock of hair behind her ear before his hand came to rest against her cheek, the warmth of his touch grounding her. 

“Feyre,” he murmured, his thumb gently stroking her skin. “You don’t owe me anything. This,” he gestured toward the nursery with a slight tilt of his head, “I did this because I want to, because it’s for our child.”

His voice was calm, steady, yet laced with sincerity, and Feyre felt her chest tighten at the tenderness of his words. She glanced around the room again, the soft yellow walls bathed in the last golden rays of sunlight, the bassinet waiting quietly in the corner like a promise of the future. Everything felt so overwhelming, yet so real.

Rhys continued, his voice low and soothing. “This isn’t about keeping score, Feyre. We’re in this together. You don’t have to carry all of it on your shoulders.”

She exhaled shakily, her emotions caught somewhere between relief and the ache of vulnerability. 

“But... I don’t want to rely on you too much,” she admitted, her voice barely a whisper. 

Rhys’ hand moved from her cheek to cup the back of her neck, pulling her into a gentle embrace. She could feel his steady heartbeat as she rested her forehead against his chest, his arms wrapping around her in a quiet, reassuring warmth. He pressed a soft kiss to the top of her head, just as he had earlier, but this time it lingered.

“You’re not alone anymore,” he murmured into her hair, his voice filled with quiet certainty. “You don’t have to do this on your own. Let me in, Feyre. Let me help.”

For a moment, they stood like that, the stillness of the room wrapping around them. The gentle glow of the setting sun filtered through the window, casting long, golden shadows over the nursery, illuminating the future that awaited them both.

Feyre closed her eyes, her fingers tightening slightly against his shirt as she let herself lean into him, letting herself accept the weight of his words. And for the first time in a long time, she allowed herself to feel the possibility of hope—fragile, but there.

“I’ll try,” she whispered finally, her voice soft but filled with a quiet determination. “I’ll try to let you in.”

Rhys smiled into her hair, his embrace tightening just a fraction as he whispered back, “That’s all I ask.”

[feyreslover]

Melodies of You: Chapter 6

Summary:

Introduction of new characters

Ao3 link - Masterlist

The gentle ping of Feyre’s message echoed through Rhys’s car, breaking the stillness that surrounded him as he sat parked, contemplating the weight of the day. He glanced down at his phone:

Feyre: Got inside safe :) Have a nice dinner with your family!

He smiled softly, grateful that she had reached out. The casualness of her words, paired with the intimacy of their shared experience earlier, felt surreal. He’d seen the baby. His baby. The reality of it hit him all over again, an overwhelming mix of awe and disbelief. The stack of Ultrasound pictures they were able to print sat heavy in his pocket. he'd wanted to take them to the closest frame shop to preserve them, hang the images throughout his apartment.

After the dinner, he told himself. Just get through the dinner.

A guilty feeling seeped into his stomach as he chided himself. 

Of course she wouldn’t want to go to his family dinner, he thought. She hardly even knew him.

Letting out a breath, Rhys set his phone aside and pulled away from the curb, the hum of the engine filling the quiet night. His mind kept circling back to that grainy image on the ultrasound screen. For the first time, it wasn’t just an abstract idea—this was real. He was going to be a father. The thought tugged at his lips, a short burst of laughter escaping as he shook his head. He, Rhysand Almedra, the one who had dodged responsibility for so long, was going to be someone’s father.

As he drove through the quiet, sleepy streets of Cassian's neighbourhood, Rhys allowed his mind to drift. The houses here were large, with neatly trimmed lawns and white picket fences lining the edges of the properties. Families lived in these houses, with kids running around the front yards, laughter and chaos filling the air.

For a moment, Rhys imagined what it would be like to live in one of these houses, to come home to a place where the grass was always cut and there was enough room for children to play. His thoughts wandered further—envisioning a future where his child would be running around a yard like this, with a smile that mirrored Feyre’s or perhaps his own mischievous smirk. It was strange, feeling that flicker of connection to his father for the first time. He had never imagined himself in that role before—never thought he would relate to the man who raised him. But here he was, at the edge of that possibility.

The tires crunched on the gravel as he finally turned into Cassian’s driveway. His brother’s house was modest compared to some of the others in the neighborhood, but from its exterior you could tell  was full of warmth and life. Rhys could see the glow of lights inside, shadows moving behind the windows as laughter and chatter spilled out faintly through the closed doors.

He parked next to the other cars already lined up in the driveway, the back of his car slightly overhanging onto the road. For a moment, he sat there, staring at the house, letting the reality sink in just a little deeper. Dinner with his family would feel different tonight—he knew that much. They had no idea what had just unfolded in his life, and he wasn’t sure if he was ready to tell them yet.

But soon, they would know. Soon, everything would change.

With a final glance at his phone—Feyre’s message still a notification on his Lock Screen —Rhys stepped out of the car, feeling the cool night air brush against his face. He took a deep breath and made his way toward the front door, ready to face his family.

The front porch, littered with potted plants and firewood, had the same inviting charm it always did. A few mismatched chairs were scattered around a small table, left out mugs on the flat surface, were evidence of a morning spent on the porch.

Rhys paused at the base of the steps, taking in the soft glow of the porch light that bathed everything in a warm amber hue. The faint scent of wood smoke lingered in the air, mingling with the earthy fragrance of the plants, and for a moment, it felt like he was stepping into a different world—one where the worries of the day hadn’t yet caught up to him.

He could hear the faint hum of conversation inside louder as he got closer to the front door, punctuated by bursts of laughter, and it made him smile. Cassian’s house had always been a place of warmth and noise, full of life and family. Rhys hadn’t told anyone about what had happened today, about the ultrasound or the quiet revelations in the car. And now, standing here, on the threshold of familiar chaos, he wondered when—or if—he’d be able to share it.

The door creaked open slightly before he could even knock. Cassian stood there, grinning broadly, his thick arms crossed over his chest. "You gonna stand out there all night, or are you coming in?" he teased, his voice full of amusement.

Rhys smirked, shaking off the weight of his thoughts as he stepped forward. "Just enjoying the peace before I get ambushed by your version of hospitality."

Cassian chuckled, stepping aside to let him in. "You know you love it."

Rhys entered the house, the familiar scent of Cassian’s cooking mingling with the warmth of the room. He took a deep breath, letting it wash over him as he prepared for the inevitable barrage of questions and laughter that always came with his friends' dinners. But somewhere, beneath it all, the image of that tiny heartbeat stayed with him, reminding him of the future that awaited, just beyond these walls.

Hanging up his coat on the mostly covered clothing hooks, Rhys made his way further into the house, eventually greeted by the sight of his friends–more like an adopted family— sipping on drinks and talking in smaller clusters.

Cassian had already returned to the group, where Azriel’s fiancée, Gwyn, sat next to him, her bright red hair catching the light. She spoke animatedly, her hands gesturing wildly as she tried to make her point. Cassian’s laughter boomed across the room, while Azriel, sitting just beside Gwyn, watched her with a fond expression, his eyes crinkling with amusement.

Across from them was Mor, lounging comfortably beside Emerie, the two of them exchanging quiet comments. Mor’s arm was casually slung over Emerie’s shoulder, her blonde curls a stark contrast against Emerie’s darker complexion. Rhys couldn’t help but wonder about their relationship status, given the conflicting updates he had heard—Emerie saying they were taking it slow, while Mor hinted she had practically moved in with her.

It was Mor who noticed him first. Her face lit up with a bright grin as she called out, “Rhys! Took you long enough. I was starting to think you’d been in an accident or something.”

A chorus of greetings followed as multiple pairs of eyes turned toward him.

"Glad you could make it," came a low, feminine voice from the doorway. The tone was cool, yet held an undercurrent of amusement. Rhys turned his head towards the sound and saw Nesta, Cassian’s wife, leaning casually against the kitchen threshold. The soft glow of the overhead light highlighted her sharp features, casting a shadow along the curve of her cheekbones. She stood with her arms crossed, her posture radiating an effortless confidence, while her piercing gray eyes fixed on him with a quiet intensity, as if she were sizing him up in an instant.

He’d known Nesta for a few years now, and despite their occasional banter, there was always a distance between them—an edge. Nesta was reserved by nature, her walls high and fortified, though Rhys knew that beneath that armor, she had a fierce loyalty to those she let in. He’d watched as her two best friends had slowly integrated themselves into his circle, his family. 

Nesta, leaning against the kitchen threshold, shifted into a calm and composed demeanour as she continued to assess Rhys. Rhysand’s eyes lingered on her, a faint sense of familiarity tugging at the edges of his mind for the first time. He couldn’t quite place why he was suddenly seeing Nesta differently, but her presence was undeniably striking. 

He gave a small smile in return. In full transparency, Rhys had never really gotten to know his sort-of sister in law. He’d never been able to crack her hardened exterior, one she’d adopted from the troubling childhood she'd experienced that Cassian had confided with him on. They had never been close, and he suspected she still viewed him as someone who hadn’t earned his place in the world—“daddy’s money,” as she once bluntly put it. But she made Cassian happy, and that was enough for him. He couldn't blame her for being closed off around him, but it didn't bother him if they never became close friends. 

Ultimately, he was satisfied that Nesta made Cassian happy, and that was that. 

There was something about Nesta’s gaze that always made him feel like he was being evaluated, like she could see through the polished facade he wore so well. He wasn’t the only one who noticed it, either. People tread carefully around Nesta, aware of the sharpness of her tongue and the precision of her judgment. But tonight, her expression was unreadable—neither cold nor inviting. Just watching. Waiting.

"Good to see you, Nesta," Rhys finally replied, his voice even. He tried to match her casual tone, but there was an underlying tension in the air, one that came from years of unspoken words and carefully maintained boundaries.

Nesta pushed off from the doorway and stepped into the room, her presence both commanding and subtle. "You’re late," she said, but there was no accusation in her voice, just a simple statement of fact, as if time was something that bent to her will, and Rhys was merely a visitor in her world.

Rhys gave a slight shrug, trying to keep the mood light. "Wouldn’t be me if I wasn’t," he joked, though he knew it fell flat under her watchful gaze.

Without saying another word, Nesta moved past him, her movements deliberate and graceful. Rhys couldn’t help but watch her as she crossed the room to where Cassian was sitting, her fingers grazing his shoulder in a silent greeting as she took her own seat. There was a quiet connection between them, one that didn’t need words or grand gestures. It was a stark reminder of what Rhys didn’t have.

“Sorry for my late arrival” he added in a low voice as he found his chair next to Azriel, the other man giving him an affectionate shoulder squeeze as he addressed the hosts as he placed a bottle of wine on the table. “I was-“

“Working?” Mor suggested.

“Uh no actually I-“ He started to reply.

"Something else? Or should I say someone—" Cassian's remark was abruptly silenced by a sharp kick to his shin under the table. He winced, his grin fading as Mor shot him a pointed look, her eyes flashing with a warning that shut him up instantly.

Grateful for his cousin's well-timed intervention, Rhys sank awkwardly into his chair, the polished wood beneath him feeling far less comfortable than usual. He could sense the inevitable shift in the air as the conversations around the table began to quiet, subtle glances and side-eyes darting his way. The laughter and chatter faded, and like a ripple spreading across the surface of a still lake, the focus gradually shifted back toward him. He should’ve seen it coming—there was no escaping it now.

"So, Rhys," Cassian said with a teasing grin, cutting in as he assessed the groups collective interest on what he was going to previously ask, spite Mor's borderline-violent warning. "Would your tardiness happen to relate to your 'mystery woman'?"

Before Rhys could respond Gwyn perked up, eyes gleaming with interest. "Mystery woman? Do tell, Rhysand.”

Across the table, Azriel raised an eyebrow, curious. His gaze lingered on Gwyn, whose excitement seemed contagious. “You saw her again?” he asked, though his attention was more on his fiancée’s enthusiasm.

“And do you finally have her name?” Mor added, leaning across Emerie, barely acknowledging her partner’s personal space as her curiosity took over.

Rhys cleared his throat, feeling the weight of everyone’s attention. He glanced down at the table for a moment before blurting out, “Feyre.”

A chorus of Oohs and That’s such a pretty name rang out from the group. But Rhys noticed Nesta freeze, her eyes widening as she silently repeated the name. Cassian, ever observant, nudged her gently.

“Do you know someone with that name?”

“No, I—” Nesta faltered, glancing briefly at him. “It just an Interesting sounding name. Excuse me.” She stood abruptly, making her way toward the kitchen. Rhys assumed she was checking on dinner, though her reaction left him unsettled.

Trying to move the conversation away from him, Rhys waved off their curiosity. “It’s not that serious,” he muttered, but Cassian wasn’t going to let him off easily.

"Not serious, huh?" Cassian leaned forward, grinning like a tiger about to pounce. "If you say so"

Despite the teasing, Rhys could feel the shift in the atmosphere. The slight  tension from earlier was easing, and even Nesta seemed to be relaxing as she returned from the kitchen, though she remained quieter than usual. 

Rhys sat back, watching Cassian and Nesta from across the table. Their easy banter filled the room, their subtle touches—her hand brushing his arm, his fingers lingering on her back—were so natural, so unforced. Cassian would lean in to whisper something in Nesta’s ear, and she’d roll her eyes, trying to hide the smile that inevitably tugged at her lips. They fit together like pieces of a puzzle, grounded in a comfort that Rhys couldn’t help but envy.

He found himself staring, feeling a tightness in his chest. The way Nesta’s eyes softened when she looked at Cassian, or the way Cassian always seemed attuned to her mood, adjusting his energy to match hers. It was a rhythm they had perfected, one that spoke of long, shared nights and whispered promises. A quiet domesticity wrapped around them like a cocoon, something that Rhys could only observe from the outside.

As they laughed at some inside joke, the contrast became sharp. Rhys’s life, full of late nights working, quick alcohol induced fixes, and fleeting connections, seemed hollow in comparison. He had  wealth and success, sure, but the stability they had—their quiet moments of belonging, domestic bliss—felt like something he could never reach. The ease of their relationship, the effortless way they shared their world, left a bitter taste in his mouth. For all that he had, Rhys realised, it was this that he was missing.

Don't spend the night sulking, he told himself. For all you know, something more could happen with Feyre. More than casually, not-so-casually having a child with her.

Rhys let his yearing overtake the wallowing as he tuned into the conversation next to him, yet only half listening.

As the night went on and smaller nibbles were served, Rhys was doing his best to steer the conversation away from anything too personal. The low hum of laughter and clinking silverware filled the air as Rhys settled further back into his chair, attempting to ignore the previous teasing from Cassian and the others that left him on an edge.

Soon enough, The table was laden with plates of roasted vegetables, grilled meats, and a rich aroma of rosemary and garlic. A fire crackled in the hearth nearby, casting a soft, golden glow over everyone’s faces. Despite the merriment, Rhys couldn’t shake the tight knot of tension in his chest.

After a while, Rhys felt his phone vibrate in his pocket. He casually reached into his jacket to pull out his phone, trying his best to act nonchalant to not seem rude. But as he did, something slipped out with it, falling onto the table with a soft thwap .

Everyone’s eyes turned to the rubber band-bound ultrasound photos lying face-up on the table. Rhy’s completely forgot about the notification as a feeling of panic stabbed into his gut.

For a second, there was only silence. Rhys’s heart dropped as he stared at the grainy black-and-white image, feeling like time had slowed down. He hadn’t meant for them to see it—the baby. not like this.

Cassian’s eyes widened as he glanced between the photo collection  and Rhys, his eyebrows slowly furrowing. "Wait a second… Is this...?" His voice trailed off, but the implication was clear.

Emerie’s eyes were huge, her shock barely contained. "Rhys, is that... an ultrasound?"

Mor, ever curious, leaned forward to get a closer look, her fingers brushing the edge of the rubber band that held the photos together. She frowned, her confusion deepening as she carefully picked up the stack, her eyes darting between the images. “What on earth are you doing with these?” she murmured, her voice trailing off as understanding dawned on her face. Her lips parted, and she glanced up at Rhys with wide eyes, unable to finish her sentence.

Azriel, sitting across from them, crossed his arms, his piercing gaze narrowed, though he said nothing. The tension on his usually unreadable face was palpable as he exchanged glances with the others.

Across the table, Nesta remained eerily still. Her gaze was fixed on the ultrasound photos in Mor’s hand, but her face had drained of colour. She blinked slowly, her lips parting as if she were about to speak, but no words came. Her reaction was subtle, but Rhys noticed it—something was off.

Rhys cursed inwardly, feeling like the walls were closing in. There was no way to walk this back now. He let out a breath and rubbed the back of his neck, trying to muster a casual laugh. It came out awkward, forced. "Yeah, uh..."

Cassian, grinning ear to ear, burst out laughing. "Oh shit, there's now way.”

Emerie blinked rapidly, still processing as her eyes darted to Cassian. “Wait, what…?”

Rhys glanced at Nesta, who had gone pale, her gaze still fixed on the ultrasounds.

Seemingly unaware at his wife’s reaction, Cassian continued to roar with laughter. “You don’t even know her last name!” he exclaimed, practically clutching his sides as he tried to catch his breath.

Rhysand shot him a rueful look, trying to hide his embarrassment. “It’s not like that,” he said, attempting to defend himself.

Mor’s initial shock morphed into something more serious as she handed the photos back to Rhys, her expression sobering. “Rhys, this is serious,” she said, her voice soft but laced with concern. “We said get her number, not get her pregnant.”

Rhys’s mouth twisted into a grimace as he accepted the photos, the weight of the situation pressing down on him like a boulder. “Yeah… I didn’t exactly plan this,” he admitted, the words tasting bitter on his tongue.

Azriel finally spoke, his voice steady, though his gaze remained unreadable. “And I’m assuming you’re… keeping it?”

Rhys nodded, though the knot of uncertainty twisted tighter in his chest. His life was unravelling faster than he could control, and he had no idea how to fix it. He was in deep—messier than he’d ever been.

Cassian shook his head, still grinning in disbelief. “Rhysand Almedra, a dad at twenty-seven,” he chuckled. “I never saw this coming.”

Rhys let out a strained laugh, though the tension still weighed heavily in the air. He glanced once more at Nesta, who remained unnaturally quiet, her gaze still lingering on the ultrasounds. Something was stirring beneath the surface, something unsaid.

And in the silence that followed, as the fire crackled softly behind them, Rhys realised that the questions were only just beginning.

***

Rhys took a deep breath as he closed the front door behind him, feeling the familiar weight of his family home settle around him as he left his shoes at the door. He hadn’t planned to come over under these circumstances, but now that he was here, he couldn’t delay the conversation any longer. Walking down the lavish hall, He found his mother in the kitchen, where the smell of her cooking was a comforting reminder of home. He was bracing himself—he hadn’t quite thought out this conversation. 

“Mama?” he called out, stepping cautiously into the kitchen. She turned around, her face lighting up with a smile.

 “Oh, look who finally decided to grace us with his presence,” she said, her voice thick with her accent, filling the room with a warmth that instantly lifted a weight off his shoulders. 

“Hi, Mama,” Rhys said cautiously, stepping out of his shoes.

“Oh, Rhysand!” she exclaimed, her arms open as if to give him a warm hug as she walked around the kitchen bench. “I’m so glad you’re here. I’ve been meaning to—”

“Mother-“ he paused, allowing the woman to wrap her arms around him.  “we need to talk,” Rhys interrupted the embrace, his voice firm but tinged with nerves. Not knowing what to do with himself, He took a seat at the kitchen table, trying to steady his racing heart.

Her smile faltered as her arms fell down to her sides. Walking towards the kitchen table and setting aside the wooden spoon she had been using, she pulled out the chair next to her for him.

 “What’s the matter, Amor? You look serious.”

Rhys took another deep breath, trying to find the right words as he accepted the seat. “It’s about... something important.” He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out the ultrasound photos, taking off the elastic and placing them gently on the table.

His mother’s eyes dropped to the images, and the colour drained from her face. Her gaze snapped up to meet his, her eyes wide with shock. “What... what is this, Rhysand?”

“That’s an ultrasound,” Rhys said, his voice barely above a whisper. “It’s of the baby. I’m going to be a father.”

Her expression shifted from shock to a deep, fiery anger, and her eyes narrowed as she stood up straight, her posture rigid. “ You’re going to be a father ?!” she repeated, her voice rising as she took a step toward him. “You got a girl pregnant , and you’re just dropping this on me now? What were you thinking , Rhysand?”

Rhys held up his hands defensively. “Mama, it’s a big deal. I know.”

She snorted, throwing her hands in the air. “Oh, you know it’s a big deal. Well, that’s reassuring! Of course, you know , but do you even have a plan? Do you realise what this means? Do you know how much your life is going to change?”

Rhys opened his mouth to reply, but she wasn’t done. Not even close.

“For years , I’ve watched you work yourself into the ground, thinking you’re invincible. And now— now you’re telling me that you’re going to bring a child into this world? Do you even know what you’re in for, Rhys? Do you even understand ?”

“Mama, I’m—”

“ Do you understand, Meu filho?” she shouted, hands on her hips, pacing back and forth like a general readying for battle. “A baby is not something you just... figure out as you go! It’s not one of your projects you can throw money at and hope it works out!” Her voice had a new edge of fury. “This is your life now, forever . You are responsible for this child! What about her ? What about this girl? Is she okay? What’s her situation? Have you even thought about how she’s handling this?”

Rhys’s head was spinning, but he managed to nod. “Yes, she’s... we’re figuring it out together.”

“Together!” his mother echoed, her voice dripping with frustration. “ Figuring it out together ... and where exactly does this ‘together’ start? is she moving in? When are you going to act like the parent this baby will need? Or are you going to keep playing the mysterious single guy, hiding her away until you feel like facing reality?”

Rhys groaned, running a hand through his hair. “I’m not hiding anything, Mama. we barely know each other”

“Oh, please .” She threw her hands up again. “I know you, Rhysand. You’ve been dodging responsibility for your personal life for years . Now look where we are.”

The room fell silent, her words hanging heavy in the air. Rhys stood there, caught between the weight of her disappointment and the undeniable truth that everything was changing—faster than he could control.

After a long pause, his mother let out a sigh, her eyes softening as she shook her head. “You’re my son. And I love you. But, Rhys... you’ve got to step up. This is bigger than you. And I just—” Her voice cracked slightly, betraying the hurt behind her anger. “I don’t want you to screw it up.”

Rhys swallowed hard, the gravity of her words settling deep. “I won’t screw it up, Mama. I promise.”

Her gaze held his for a long moment before she shook her head again, muttering something under her breath in a tone that was half affection, half exasperation. "We’ll see about that."

At that, a voice called from upstairs. “What’s all the commotion down there?”

The rapid thudding of footsteps followed, and before he could respond, his sister Lívia appeared at the top of the stairs. She leaned over the banister, her long, dark hair spilling over one shoulder as her familiar brown eyes zeroed in on him.

“Oh, look who finally decided to show up,” she teased with a smirk. “Let me guess—Mama’s already chewing you out for whatever mess you’ve made this time.”

Rhys sighed dramatically, but a grin tugged at his lips. “You could say that.”

Lívia descended the stairs with the kind of confident grace she always carried. As she reached the bottom of the stairs, she raised an eyebrow, her eyes narrowing playfully. “Okay, spill. What did you do now?” She crossed her arms, but her teasing tone betrayed her curiosity.

Rhys chuckled, rubbing the back of his neck. “Let’s just say I might’ve skipped a step or two in the ‘life plan.’”

Lívia’s eyes flicked between him and their mother, and then her gaze sharpened. “Wait... Is this about that girl?”

Rhys opened his mouth to answer, but Lívia’s eyes widened as realisation hit her. “ Oh my God. You’re not just dating her, are you?” Her mouth dropped open in mock disbelief as she looked down at the photo on the table, silently  connecting the dots. “You knocked her up, didn’t you?!”

Their mother sighed dramatically, shaking her head. “ Thank you, Lívia, for summarising it so delicately. ”

Lívia’s shock gave way to a burst of laughter. “You’ve got to be kidding me! Rhys, Imagine if dad was still here. He would lose it!”

Lívia’s laughter faded as soon as she caught the brief flicker of emotion that passed across Rhys’s face. Her grin vanished, and her teasing demeanour softened instantly. “Oh, Rhys… I didn’t mean—”

From a young age, Rhysand was acutely aware of the immense expectations placed upon him. His father, a towering figure of success and authority, had meticulously crafted a vision of what Rhysand’s life should look like. Every achievement was not just a personal milestone but a reflection of the family’s standing. Rhysand was constantly aware of this dual pressure: to excel and to represent the family’s legacy.

He waved her off with a small, tight smile. “It’s fine, Lí. Really.”

Their mother, who had been watching the exchange, sighed softly and placed a gentle hand on Rhys’s arm. "He’d have been proud of you, you know," she said quietly. "Maybe a little shocked… but proud."

The silence that followed was thick with unspoken memories of their father. It had been years since he’d passed, but moments like this still caught them all off guard, the absence lingering just beneath the surface of their lives.

Rhys cleared his throat, forcing a lighter tone. “I’m not sure ‘proud’ would’ve been his first reaction.”

Lívia snorted softly, her expression still gentle but teasing again. “Yeah, probably not. He’d have given you that look—the one where his eyebrow goes up and he just stares at you until you cave.”

Rhys chuckled, shaking his head at the memory. “I can practically feel it now.”

Their mother smiled wistfully. “He might’ve given you a hard time, but he always wanted to see you become a father one day. And you will be—just… sooner than expected.”

Rhys nodded, the weight of that truth settling on him. “Yeah. Sooner than expected.”

Lívia, never one to dwell in heavy moments for too long, stepped forward and nudged him with her elbow. “Well, now you’ve got me to give you the side-eye when you mess up. So, at least some things won’t change.”

Rhys gave her a grateful smile, thankful for the brief moment of levity.

"Great. I can’t wait."

[feyreslover]

Melodies of You: Chapter 5

Masterlist

Feyre couldn’t breathe, couldn’t move, as she watched Rhys process her words. His eyes locked onto hers, and she could feel the tension coil tighter between them, thick and suffocating. The noise of the bar, the people, the clinking glasses—all of it faded into a distant hum, leaving only them in this suspended moment.

“I—” Rhys began, but his voice faltered, the confident man she'd known him to be so far, rendered speechless. She could see the shock in his eyes, the concern, the confusion, and something else, something deeper that she couldn’t quite place. It felt like it mirrored the chaos inside her, the fear and uncertainty that had been her constant companions these past weeks.

Pregnant.

The word echoed in the space between them, growing louder  with every passing second. She hadn’t needed to spell it out for him—he knew, he had to know, that the baby was his.

She saw his gaze flicker over her, taking in every detail, searching for something—an answer, maybe, or some indication that he had misunderstood. Her cheeks were still damp, the evidence of her tears shining under the dim lights. The vulnerability she had shown, the words she had forced out despite the terror gripping her, it was all laid bare before him.

He whispered her name, the sound of it almost lost in the heavy silence. His hand hovered near hers, close enough that she could feel the warmth radiating from his skin, but he didn’t touch her. She wasn’t sure she wanted him to. Or maybe she did. She couldn’t tell anymore, everything inside her was twisted into knots.

And now, everything was different. This one moment, this one truth, had shifted the ground beneath their feet, and Feyre had no idea where it would lead them.

Rhysand's voice broke the silence, soft and hesitant. “Do—”

He paused, searching her face as if trying to read her every thought. “Do you need a hug?”

For a moment, Feyre couldn’t find her voice. The offer was simple, yet it carried the weight of something far deeper. She swallowed hard, the lump in her throat nearly choking her.

Hesistanly, Feyre leaned forward, letting Rhys wrap his arms around her as she let her tears fall. His presence broke a wall, deep inside of her. One that forced her to close off her feelings. 

“Let’s get out of here, shall we?” Rhysand said after a while, his voice gentle, coaxing her out of the emotional whirlwind as her sobs lessened.

With a sniffle, Feyre nodded, her voice barely above a whisper as she leaned back to look at his face. Leaving the bar, the night air was cool as they walked down the nearly empty street, the city alive with distant sounds that seemed to belong to another world. Feyre’s mind was a tangled mess, thoughts racing faster than she could catch them. When they finally stopped, it was as if the world had fallen away, leaving just the two of them and the quiet reality they were facing.

A couple walked past, the man rolling a stroller in front. Feyre envisioned herself behind the stroller, Rhys being the one beside her. 

“But we—” Rhysand’s voice was steady, his gaze fixed on the parents. There was something in his eyes, a mix of fear and hope.

“I know,” said Feyre, cutting him off. They were safe.

Well, as safe as two adults slightly under the influence could be.

They stared at each other, the seriousness of the situation hanging between them, until suddenly, as if on cue, they both burst out laughing. 

The sound was like a release, shattering the tension that had been building. As they continued to walk, with no destination, Rhys had a look of determination on his face, conveying to feyre that he was deep in thought.

“Are you sure..” he finally said, “That you're pregnant?” his tone lighter now, teasing even.

“Yes,” Feyre replied, feigning offence as her cheeks flushed. “It would be a sick joke if I wasn’t.”

Rhysand sobered as he stopped to face her, his expression turning more serious as he asked, “What are you going to do?”

“Sorry?” Feyre blinked, caught off guard by the question.

“With the pregnancy?” he clarified.

Feyre hesitated, her heart pounding as doubt crept in. “Don’t you mean what are we going to do?” She cursed herself internally for assuming he would want anything to do with her or the baby. “I mean—sorry—I shouldn’t assu—”

Rhysand cut her off, his voice gentle but firm. “I’ll support any decision, but ultimately, it’s your choice.”

Feyre stared at him, disbelief flickering in her eyes. 

“It’s your choice,” He continued. “It’s important to me that you know that.”

She sighed, the weight of the decision pressing down on her. “Honestly, I’m still undecided. I thought you would have an answer.” A naive thought, Feyre noted. It was fate's string of luck that brought them together tonight. 

“ I’m not ready for a child,” she admitted, fiddling with the sleeve of her cardigan.

With a slight frown, she continued. “I’m twenty-something, barely scraping by under the weight of bills and debt. I live in a shabby apartment with less-than-friendly neighbours in a less-than-friendly neighbourhood. I wouldn’t be able to work for a period—how will I make money?”

 “Sorry…” she said as she finished, quickly aware of the fact that she might have overshared onto Rhys. 

He took it all in, concerned flickering over his face as he processed what she said. 

“Feyre,” Rhys said finally, his voice stable as it broke through the silence, save for the distant sounds of traffic.

 “If you decide to keep the baby, there’s no way that I won’t be a part of the child’s life.” Rhysand’s voice was resolute, leaving no room for doubt. “You won’t be alone in this. You’ll have your people too.”

Feyre gave a bitter smile. Her people. Funny.

“I don’t want your charity money, Rhysand,” Feyre said, her voice laced with defiance.

“You will if it’s for our child,” he replied, the word ‘our’ lingering in the air between them.

Feyre hesitated, biting her lip before she spoke again. “I have another doctor’s appointment on the 24th… would you like to come?”

“Of course,” Rhysand answered without missing a beat.

“Cool” she mumbled, trying to sound casual but failing miserably. She didn't want Rhys to know what her house looked like. For all she knew, he probably lived in a penthouse, a view of the expensive city gracing his vision every morning.

“How did you get here? I can give you a lift if you need.” asked Rhys, breaking through her self-conscious thoughts of pity. 

“I’m okay, I’ll just take the bus bac—”

“I’m giving you a lift,” Rhysand interrupted, his tone leaving no room for argument.

The echo of their footsteps filled the parking garage as they descended the concrete steps. The dim, fluorescent lights flickered above them, casting long shadows across the rows of cars. The air was cool, carrying the faint scent of gasoline and rubber, and the distant hum of the city seemed miles away.

Feyre’s eyes swept over the parked vehicles, a mix of practical sedans and the occasional luxury car, but when they approached Rhysand’s car, she couldn’t help but pause. The sleek, black vehicle stood out among the others, its polished surface gleaming under the harsh lighting. It was the kind of car that turned heads, the kind that spoke of money and power without needing to boast.

“Wow, your car… it’s so…” Feyre began, her words trailing off as she searched for the right description.

“Sleek?” Rhysand offered with a small smile, clearly amused by her reaction.

Feyre glanced at him, catching the playful glint in his eyes. “I was going to say expensive-looking, but ‘sleek’ sounds much better,” she admitted, a hint of a smile tugging at her lips.

As they drove through the city, Feyre couldn’t help but notice the tattoos peeking out from under Rhysand’s shirt sleeve. Curiosity got the better of her. “Your tattoos… what do they mean?”

Rhysand glanced at her before returning his focus to the road. “Promessa.”

Feyre wondered what language it was, unable to decipher the meaning.

“Promise,” Rhys translated, after a beat. “They’re a promise”

“To who?” she pressed.

“My family. Myself.” Rhysand’s voice was low, almost reverent. “It’s a reminder to protect them. Never to let anyone in my circle suffer. Whether it’s my mother and sister, or my adoptive brothers.” Feyre didn’t know what to say.

“That’s…”

“Yeah,” Rhysand agreed, his eyes meeting hers briefly before looking back at the road.

“Yeah,” she echoed, feeling the weight of his words settle over her.

Following the directions Feyre had plugged into his phone, Rhysand guided the car through the quiet streets until they reached a small apartment building. Feyre pointed to the entrance.

“This is me up here,” she said, unbuckling her seatbelt.

“Wait, I almost forgot,” Rhysand said, holding out his hand. “Give me your phone so I can add my number and send you the details for the doctor appointments.”

Feyre handed over her phone, watching as he quickly typed in his information. Feyre tried to ignore the look of concern as Rhys took in her battered up device, outdated and slow. When he handed it back, their fingers brushed, sending a small jolt through her.

Not knowing what to do next, feyre opened the door. Before turning to get out, Rhys' words grabbed onto her.

“Feyre,” Rhysand said, his voice softer now, almost hesitant.

“Yes?” she replied, her heart beating faster.

“It was nice to see you again.”

Feyre forced a bittersweet smile, the truth of his words cutting deeper than she cared to admit, the weight of the news heavy between them. 

“You too, Rhysand.”

***

Feyre awoke to the soft glow of early morning light filtering through the curtains, casting a warm, golden hue across the unfamiliar room. For a moment, she lay there, disoriented, her mind foggy from sleep. The bed was warm, and she could feel the steady rise and fall of a man's chest beside her, his muscled arm draped loosely around her waist, a swirl of tattoos covering his brown skin.

As she shifted to stare at the ceiling, the events of the previous night flooded back in a rush. The heated glances, the electricity in the air, the way their bodies had fit together so perfectly as if they were meant to be. It had been intense, consuming, and now, in the quiet aftermath, Feyre felt the cold grip of reality settling in.

She felt something last night. Something she’d thought she’d lost long ago.

Hope. 

The feelings she’d tried so hard to push away were now impossible to ignore. 

Spending only one night with the man, he had a way of getting under her skin, of making her want things she wasn’t sure she could handle. There was something about him that made her want to know more, to peel back the layers and see what lay beneath that confident exterior. But with that curiosity came fear, fear that Feyre wasn't ready to face.

Tamlin. His name lingered in the back of her mind like a ghost. The promises he’d made, the love that had turned to control, the way he’d left her feeling trapped and suffocated. She’d barely escaped that relationship with her sense of self intact, and the thought of falling into something similar with this stranger terrified her.What if it happened again? What if she got too close, let her guard down, and found herself in another situation where she felt powerless? The very idea sent a shiver down her spine.

She turned her head slightly, careful not to wake the man, and looked at him. In sleep, he seemed so different, almost vulnerable in a way she hadn’t expected. His dark hair was tousled, his face relaxed, free from the careful mask she’d seen the night before. It stirred something in her, a longing she hadn’t felt in a long time. But alongside that longing was a deep, gnawing fear.

Feyre took a deep breath, her heart pounding as she made a decision. She couldn’t stay. Not like this. Not when her emotions were a chaotic mess, pulling her in different directions. She needed to clear her head, to put some distance between them before she did something she might regret. Slowly, she slipped out from under his arm, moving with the kind of practised stealth that came from years of learning how to avoid waking someone. She gathered her clothes, pulling them on with trembling hands, her breath catching in her throat when Rhysand stirred but didn’t wake. Her shoes were at the foot of the bed, and she grabbed them, holding them in her hand as she tiptoed toward the door.

Just before she stepped out, she paused, looking back at him one last time. A part of her wanted to wake him, to talk, to see where this could go. But the larger part of her, the part that was scared, that was still healing, knew she wasn’t ready. Not yet.

With a final, hesitant glance, Feyre turned and quietly left the room, closing the door softly behind her. As she walked down the hallway, her shoes still in hand, the only sound was the faint echo of her footsteps. Each step away from him felt like she was walking away from something that could have been more, but also something she wasn’t sure she could survive.

It's okay, she told herself, It's not like the night meant anything to him, anyway.

***

Gasping awake from her dream, Feyre felt a sudden, queasy sensation in the pit of her stomach, a new kind that gnawed at her insides and left her feeling unsteady. At first, she tried to ignore it, hoping it would pass if she just lay still and breathed through it. But as the moments ticked by, the nausea only intensified, rolling over her in waves until it became impossible to ignore.

She threw back the covers and stumbled out of bed, her legs unsteady beneath her as she made her way to the bathroom. The cool tile floor under her feet sent a shiver up her spine, but it did little to quell the rising discomfort in her stomach.

Kneeling before the toilet, Feyre gripped the edge of the porcelain bowl, her knuckles white as she braced herself for what she knew was coming. Her breath hitched, and then, with a violent heave, she emptied the contents of her stomach into the toilet. The force of it left her gasping for air, her throat burning and her eyes watering. For a few moments, she just knelt there, hunched over and trembling, as the remnants of nausea lingered, making her stomach twist uncomfortably.

When the worst of it finally passed, she leaned back against the cool bathroom wall, her head resting against the tiles as she closed her eyes. The room seemed to spin slightly, and she took slow, measured breaths, trying to regain some sense of equilibrium.

Her body felt weak, as if it had been drained of all energy, leaving her with a heavy, bone-deep fatigue that made it difficult to move. The nausea had left a bitter, acidic  taste in her mouth, and her throat felt raw, vulnerable.

After a few more moments of sitting there, she forced herself to stand, her movements sluggish and careful as she regained control. She rinsed her mouth out at the sink, the cool water soothing the burn in her throat but doing little to erase the lingering unease in her stomach. Feyre caught a glimpse of herself in the bathroom mirror—pale, with dark circles under her eyes and a sheen of sweat on her forehead. She looked as exhausted as she felt, and the realisation made her stomach churn again, though this time from something deeper, more emotional.

Pressing a hand to her slightly bloated abdomen, Feyre sighed, a mix of frustration and resignation washing over her. The reality of her situation was becoming more tangible with each passing day, and while she had expected the physical changes, nothing had prepared her for the sudden, visceral reality of morning sickness. 

She pushed herself away from the sink, moving slowly back to the bedroom. The nausea had subsided for now, but she knew it would likely return, lurking just beneath the surface, ready to strike again. Curling back under the covers, she closed her eyes, hoping for just a few more moments of rest before the day began in earnest. The queasiness had left her feeling drained, but she knew she would have to find the strength to push through it—one day at a time, like she’d always had.

Waking up later, Feyre walked into her small, cluttered apartment, her stomach growling. She opened the fridge, only to find it nearly empty. She sighed, cursing at herself for forgetting to get groceries. Anxiety pooled in her stomach as she reminded herself  that money was tight—too tight for her liking. She had problems, and they were piling up faster than she could handle. However, she wasn't new to the sight of an empty kitchen.

***

Feyre sat on the cold floor of the tiny kitchen, her stomach rumbling with a deep, gnawing ache. She stared at the mostly empty shelves, save for the rare, expired box of food, hoping that if she wished hard enough, something—anything edible—would magically appear. 

Her little hands clutched her old, hand-me-down dress, and she tried to ignore the sharp pangs of hunger that seemed to grow stronger with each passing moment.

Her eyes wandered over to the old, dusty pantry. She knew it was empty, but she checked it anyway, just in case. The darkness inside mocked her, showing her only the same emptiness she felt inside her belly. The kitchen smelled of nothing but stale air, and the silence was heavy, pressing down on her small shoulders.

Pouting, she thought about the times when the kitchen was full of food, when the family chef had cooked meals that made her belly feel warm and satisfied. But those days felt like a dream now, far away and unreachable. The hunger made her feel like she was shrinking, like she was becoming invisible, lost in the emptiness of their little home.

Feyre sighed and hugged her knees to her chest, trying to make herself as small as possible. She wished she could make the food come, just by wanting it so badly. But deep down, she knew that no matter how hard she wished, the food wasn’t going to show up. The ache in her belly was just a reminder of what was missing, and it felt like a hole that nothing could fill.

***

At work the next day, Feyre approached her boss hesitantly, asking for the 24th off. Her boss, a middle-aged woman with a no-nonsense attitude, looked at her with mild curiosity.

“Sure… why?” the boss asked, raising an eyebrow as she returned to continue to type something into her computer.

Feyre forced a smile. “Oh, it’s nothing. Just need to take care of some personal stuff.”

The boss nodded, accepting the vague answer without paying much attention, and Feyre went through the rest of her workday. She was grateful at the flexibility her boss allowed her, along with the opportunities that she’d been granted. She hadn't even finished high school. Let alone university. Yet, by a random strike of luck, feyre was able to get her position, based on her small portfolio of work and pure determination. It wasn't where Feyre wanted to be in her career. But it was a start. She hoped.

Walking through one of the gallery halls, the familiar pang of sadness hit her as she passed by the art supplies in the storage room. She hadn’t painted in years, and the thought of it brought a dull ache to her chest.

In an act to distract herself, Feyre fished out her phone, pressing a contact that she hadn't messaged before. Rhysand.

Feyre: Hey. sorry for taking a while to text. I'll send through the information for the appointment.

Feyre: This is Feyre BTW.

After a couple of seconds, his reply came through.

Rhysand: Thanks for the clarification, though i'm not waiting on anyone else to message me about an ultrasound.

taking a few minutes to think of a reply, hiding her phone from strolling patrons and other workers, Feyre felt herself smiling.

Feyre: Prick. I don't know how people keep up with your insufferable ass. 

Rhysand: It’s a mystery, really. I’m sure I’ll manage to win you over eventually, though.

Feyre rolled her eyes, but her smile widened. She typed out her reply, glancing around to make sure no one was watching her too closely.

Feyre: You’re delusional if you think that’s happening anytime soon.

His next message came with a speed that suggested he was fully engaged in their banter.

Rhysand: Challenge accepted. I’ll have you eating out of the palm of my hand in no time.

Feyre chuckled under her breath, shaking her head at his arrogance. She could almost picture the smug look on his face as he typed that.

Feyre: I think I’ll pass. I’m not looking to inflate your already massive ego.

There was a brief pause before his next message came through, and when it did, it was just cheeky enough to make her laugh out loud.

Rhysand: Too late. Your texting me first has already done the job.

Feyre shook her head, feeling a mix of amusement and exasperation.

Feyre: You’re impossible, you know that?

Rhysand: And yet, here you are, still texting me. Maybe I’m not the only one who’s insufferable.

She sighed dramatically, though the grin on her face betrayed her.

Feyre: Fine, I’ll give you that one. But only because you showed up today.

His reply was softer, more sincere, as if the playful banter had given way to something more genuine.

Rhysand: I’ll always show up for you, Feyre.

Her heart gave a little flutter at that, and for a moment, she didn’t know how to respond. She stared at the screen, a small smile playing on her lips as she typed her next message.

Feyre: I’ll hold you to that.

There was no immediate reply, but she didn’t mind. The conversation had shifted, becoming something more than just banter, and that left her with a warmth she wasn’t quite ready to examine.

As she tucked her phone back into her pocket, Feyre couldn’t help but feel that, despite everything, she was glad she had reached out to him. The connection, however fleeting or complicated, was something she hadn’t realised she needed until now.

***

Waiting outside the doctors office, under layers of old winter clothing, Feyre watched as her breath was visible, evident of the cold. Surveying the street, there was no sign of Rhys.

She supposed that she could wait inside, where there was quite literally a room for it, but she fell short as she went to open the door, everything finally feeling real.

Looking down at her phone, a notification popped up from Rhys.

Rhysand: Parking now. Will be there in a sec.

Feyre let out a small snort as a reply. 

Feyre: Should you be parking and texting?

“My car has a voice to text feature” said a voice above her, starting Feyre.

As she jumped back and looked up, she saw that Rhys was standing in front of her, a blue knitted scarf wrapped around his neck contrasting to the more formal suit he was wearing. 

“Sorry for scaring you” he said as a greeting, the corner of his mouth slightly raised.

“It's fine” she replied after a beat, her heart still racing. “i just didn't expect you to get here so fast after parking”

“Well I did say I would be here in a sec, didn't I?”

Rolling her eyes in mock annoyance, she muttered prick, before turning around, holding the handle of the glass to the medical centre to open the door.  

Met with the all-familiar smell of sanitisation, Feyre made her way towards the front office, giving the man on the other side of the counter a small smile before saying “I’m here for a one o’clock appointment. Ultrasound and general consultation. My name is Feyre.”

Handing her a clip board with a form, the man pointed to a row of vacant seats, telling Feyre that her name would be called out when it was her turn. 

Sitting down on a slightly uncomfortable chair, Feyre sent a closed lip smile to a couple next to her, the woman heavily pregnant, her right hand resting on top of her protruding stomach. Lifting up a pen that was provided at the front desk, Feyre filled out the form, leaning it slightly away from Rhys. 

Rhys, to his credit, did not attempt to look, opting to stare at the wall adjacent to them. 

Feyre thought of her own stomach, in which she noticed to be slightly raised as she got dressed this morning, and wondered at what point she would resemble the lady next to her.

If she continued to be pregnant, that was.

Leaning over, the woman next to her spoke. “First time?” she said, reading over the form feyre was holding, detailing the ultrasound she was about to have.

“Uh yeah” she started. “How did you know”

The woman gave a smug smile to her husband, before replying. “You guys are always so nervous”

“It's actually my seventh” piped up Rhys from the other side of her. “All different women.”

Looking down, Feyre tried to hide her smile as the couple next to them widened their eyes. 

The woman blinked in surprise, her eyes darting between Feyre and Rhys. “Seventh?” she echoed, incredulous as her husband simultaneously asked “Different women?”.

Feyre leaned back in her chair, feigning nonchalance. “Oh, yes. Rhys just has that effect on women, I suppose. We can’t resist him,” she said, her tone dripping with playful sarcasm.

Rhys smirked, leaning closer to Feyre. “It’s a curse, really. They just keep appearing out of nowhere. I didn't even know she was pregnant until we bumped into each other outside. Crazy coincidence, right? ”

The husband of the pregnant woman chuckled, shaking his head in astonishment. “You must be quite the charmer, then.”

“Or just very persistent,” Feyre quipped, flashing Rhys a teasing glance.

Rhys placed a hand dramatically over his heart. “I prefer to think of it as dedicated. And to be fair,” he added, leaning in to stage whisper to the couple, “she’s the first one to actually stick around for more than one.”

The woman let out a laugh, shaking her head. “Well, good luck with that,” she said, her amusement clear as she turned back to her husband.

As the couple returned to their own conversation, Feyre nudged Rhys with her elbow. “Seventh, huh? You really are full of surprises.”

Rhys grinned down at her, his eyes gleaming with mischief. “I couldn't help myself. I had to keep them on their toes, didn’t I?”

Feyre rolled her eyes but couldn’t suppress her smile. “You’re lucky I find you amusing.”

“I think you find a lot more than just amusing,” Rhys teased, his voice lowering slightly as he added, “Handsome, dashing even.” 

“God, if I knew you were such a shameless flirt, I would of never invited you” said Feyre, glancing at the woman beside her, who was now completely engrossed in her own conversation. Sobering up to fact that she was still on the fence surrounding the pregnancy, Feyre spoke up.  “Let's just get through the appointment.”

Rhys nodded, his expression softening as he took in Feyres words, the seriousness of them. “You know, I'm happy you invited me here to be with you.”

Feyre’s smile was laced with sadness, just for a second, before she quickly masked it. “I didn’t want to assume…”

Rhys tilted his head, his gaze intent on her. “You don’t have to assume anything with me, Feyre. I’m here because I want to be.”

Her heart gave a little flutter at that, but she quickly shoved the feeling aside, opting for humour instead. “Whatever happens here, just don’t go telling any more couples or nurses it’s your eighth, okay?” 

Rhys chuckled, his earlier teasing giving way to something more genuine. “As you wish. But only because I don’t want to ruin my reputation”

Feyre grinned, shaking her head. “Your reputation, huh? I fear you lost that .”

Rhys met her gaze, his smile softer now. “I guess I did.”

Just as Rhys finished talking, a nurse dressed in scrubs walked into the waiting room, her eyes brightening as she called out Feyres name. 

Madja, the tag pinned on her shirt said. 

Standing up, Rhys followed suit, giving her a reassuring smile as they walked towards the nurse. Once situated inside a room, the nurse, Madja,  a kind-looking woman with a gentle demeanour, explained what was happening, her voice soothing the nerves that had been building up in Feyre. 

“You're around nine weeks, correct?” asked Madja, her eyes focused upon a computer.

“I believe so” replied Reyre, counting the maths in her head for reassurance. 

“And..” continued Madja, swirling in her chair to face them, her gaze upon Feyre. “Your doctor's referral says you’re unsure if you are going to terminate the pregnancy or not?"

“Yes”

“What symptoms are you experiencing?

‘Fatigue, i'm getting morning sickness, the usual I guess” 

Madja nodded “That's all perfectly normal. I hate asking this, but its a necessity..” she paused, searching Feyres reaction before continuing, “You haven't noticed any spotting or intense lower abdomen pain”

“Oh,” was all Feyre could muster, clearly not expecting it.  “No”

“That's good,” Madja said, standing up. “Well, If you could please lay down on the bed and lift up the bottom of your shirt, we can get started.”

Following the nurse's instructions, Feyre sat on the bed, carefully swinging her legs up before lying down. As she reached for the hem of her shirt, she glanced at Rhys. His eyes were fixed on her with an intensity that made her cheeks flush.

She quickly broke eye contact, turning her gaze to the ceiling as she lifted her shirt. The cool air against her exposed skin was soon followed by the cold gel Madja applied to her lower abdomen, causing Feyre to squint slightly at the unexpected chill. The nurse, Madja, adjusted a glowing screen on the wall and dimmed the lights in the room, creating a soft ambiance. The screen cast a faint glow over the room, illuminating Rhys’s face as he watched with rapt attention. Feyre could hear the faint hum of the machine as Madja gently pressed the ultrasound probe against her abdomen. The cool gel spread further across her skin, and the pressure was firm but not uncomfortable.

As the screen flickered to life, a grainy, black-and-white image appeared. Feyre’s breath caught in her throat. It was a moment she had been both anticipating and dreading, and now that it was here, she found herself uncharacteristically speechless.

Madja moved the probe slightly, and the image shifted, revealing a small, pulsating shape on the screen. “There it is,” the nurse said softly, her voice filled with the quiet reverence of someone who had witnessed this miracle countless times but never lost its wonder. “That’s your baby.”

Feyre’s eyes widened as she stared at the screen, her heart pounding in her chest. It was so small, so fragile-looking, yet there was an undeniable sense of life and presence in that tiny form.

Rhys, standing beside her, leaned in closer, his expression unreadable as he stared at the screen. His hand brushed against hers, a small, almost hesitant gesture, but one that spoke volumes. For a moment, everything else faded away—the joking, the nervousness, the uncertainties. It was just the two of them, connected by the flickering image on the screen and the shared realisation of what it meant.

Feyre felt tears prick at the corners of her eyes, but she blinked them back, not wanting to lose sight of the moment. “It’s… they're real,” she whispered, more to herself than anyone else.

Rhys squeezed her hand gently, his gaze still locked on the screen. “Yeah, it is,” he replied, his voice a low murmur, filled with a mixture of awe and something deeper, something that made Feyre’s heartache in a way she hadn’t expected.

Madja moved the probe again, capturing more angles and measurements, but Feyre barely noticed. Her focus remained on that tiny, flickering heartbeat and the warmth of Rhys’s hand in hers, grounding her in a moment she knew she would never forget.

Looking over to Rhys, she studied his face. Looking through the slight pool of tears that welled , she made eye contact with him.

She knew what her decision would be. Gazing at the man across from her, Feyre knew Rhys was thinking the same exact thing. 

***

The ride back was quiet, but not uncomfortably so. The car’s interior was filled with the soft hum of the engine and the faint sounds of the city beyond the windows.

Feyre stared out at the passing streets, her mind replaying the ultrasound over and over again. The image of that tiny heartbeat was seared into her memory, and she couldn’t shake the feeling that something monumental had just shifted in her life.

Rhys drove with one hand on the steering wheel, the other resting casually on the gear shift. His gaze flicked toward her every so often, as if he was waiting for her to speak, but he didn’t push. There was a new weight between them now, something that neither of them seemed ready to address just yet. Feyre’s fingers traced absentmindedly over the hem of her shirt, the coolness of the gel still lingering in her memory. She could still feel the echo of Rhys’s hand on hers, the way he had held it with a tenderness that made her chest tighten.

Finally, she broke the silence, her voice soft but steady. “I know I said this earlier, but thank you… for coming with me.”

Rhys glanced over at her, his expression unreadable in the dim light of the dashboard. “You don’t have to thank me, Feyre. I wanted to be there.”

She nodded, swallowing hard as she tried to put her feelings into words. “It’s just… I didn’t realise how much it would mean to me. Having someone there, I mean.”

He gave a small, understanding nod, his fingers drumming lightly against the steering wheel. “You’re not alone in this, Feyre. Whatever happens, you’re not alone.”

The sincerity in his voice sent a shiver down her spine, and she turned to look at him, searching his face for any sign of hesitation or doubt. But all she found was a quiet resolve, an unspoken promise that he was in this with her, no matter what.

She let out a slow breath, her shoulders relaxing just a bit. “I’m not used to that,” she admitted, her voice, raw,  barely above a whisper.

Rhys smiled slightly, a hint of sadness in his eyes as he realised Feyre, beyond him, didn't have anyone . “Maybe it’s time you got used to it.”

They fell into silence again, but this time it felt different. The tension that had been there before was still present, but it was tempered by something warmer, something that felt almost like hope.

As they pulled up to her apartment, Rhys turned off the engine but made no move to get out. He looked at her, his gaze steady and sure. “Are you okay?”

Feyre nodded, her hand resting on the door handle. “Yeah… I think I am.”

Rhys leaned back in his seat, studying her with a thoughtful expression. “If you need anything—anything at all—just call me. Even if it’s the middle of the night.”

She smiled at that, a small but genuine smile. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

Fidgeting with his hand on the steering wheel, Rhys spoke.

“Sorry to spring this onto you,” he said, glancing at Feyre. “But did you want to meet my family? We're having dinner tonight at my brother's house.”

The question hit Feyre like a bolt of lightning. Her heart raced, and a wave of panic surged through her. 

Fuck no. 

The thought was almost a shout in her mind. The idea of meeting his family, of diving into that level of intimacy, felt overwhelming and terrifying.

“Uh,” she started, forging to ignore the warmth of her blush of embarrassment. “I’m busy tonight, besides, I don't want to show up uninvited.”

“Nonsense, they're convinced you're already coming-”

“You've told them about me?”

“Not about..” he started, making a quick pointed look to feyre’s stomach.

“Right” She replied, the mood inside the car suddenly shifting.

With a final, lingering glance, Feyre opened the door, stepped out of the car. The night air was cool against her skin, a stark contrast to the warmth inside the vehicle. She paused for a moment, looking back at Rhys through the open window.

“Goodnight, Rhys.”

After a second, he replied. 

“Goodnight, Feyre.”

After Saying her half-hearted goodbye to Rhys, Feyre hurriedly ran up her stars, noticing the unusual out-of-breathness she felt as she reached her door. Once inside, she walked over to her living room window, peering down to the street below.  

Rhysand’s car was still parked out front, perfectly visible from her apartment. The sight of it grounded her in the present, and she pulled out her phone with trembling hands. Her fingers hovered over the screen for a moment before she composed a quick message.

Feyre: Got inside safe :) Have a nice dinner with your family!

With a deep breath, she hit send, hoping that Rhysand would read her underlying apology. As she watched the car start up and drive away, she felt a mix of relief and apprehension, wondering how he would respond.

[feyreslover]

Ours? Ours. A Feysand oneshot ೃ⁀➷

Summary:

Feyre and Rhys take a step in their relationship.

Rating; G

Read on Ao3

As the keys jangled in her hand, a wave of surrealism washed over Feyre, grounding her in the weight of the reality before her.

The wooden door stood before her, a work of art with its intricate floral carvings etched deep into the panels, each petal and vine painstakingly detailed. It was framed by smooth, white columns that seemed almost regal, their surfaces interrupted by the elegant spread of wisteria vines. The tendrils clung tightly to the stone, spiralling upward like nature's delicate lace. The leaves, a mix of vibrant emerald and soft jade, sprawled in unpredictable patterns, while cascades of lavender blooms hung in thick bunches, their fragrance lightly perfuming the air.

Standing on the top step of the townhouse, Feyre felt the once-bustling city behind her recede into a distant hum, the noise melting into an almost reverent hush. The sight of the house—their house—left her breathless.

This house was hers. Truly hers.

She could still feel the weight of the pen pressing against the page, her hand steady as she signed the ownership documents. Her signature, its graceful curves spilling slightly beyond the borders of the box, was the physical mark of her ownership—a symbol no one could take from her. In that moment, the reality of it all settled deep in her bones.

A familiar warmth brushed against her side as an arm slid around her back, his hand gently resting at her waist. Feyre turned to find herself gazing into her husband's almost-violet eyes, those eyes she had once described as a galaxy of constellations, endless and captivating. They held her steady, pulling her into their quiet gravity.

Smiling slightly, feyre leaned into his firm, yet inviting, frame. Placing her head on his shoulder, she turned back to look at the house, bathing herself in their comfortable silence. There were no words, Feyre realised, that could fully capture the magnitude of what she felt. Or what she imagined he was feeling too.

In the stillness, they simply stood there, basking in the quiet knowledge that this moment was theirs.

***

Opening the apartment door, Feyre was met with resistance, the familiar creak and scrape of clutter pressing against the frame. With a frustrated sigh, she braced herself, pushing harder until there was just enough room to squeeze through, her work bag catching slightly on the edge as she slipped inside.

As she cleared the doorway, her eyes immediately landed on the culprit: a haphazard pile of boxes and discarded shoes, remnants of their last frantic attempt to tidy up. It had barely been a week since they'd promised to get more organised, but here it was again—the mess, creeping back into their space like an unwanted guest.

The apartment, small and cramped, felt suffocating. The once-cosy atmosphere of mismatched furniture and overstuffed bookshelves now felt claustrophobic. Every corner was crammed with something: old textbooks, half-packed boxes, laundry that never seemed to make it into the hamper. She weaved through the clutter, narrowly avoiding tripping over a stack of magazines that had toppled onto the floor.

Feyre’s chest tightened as she dropped her bag onto the worn couch, her gaze sweeping over the disarray. This place, once a symbol of their early days together, now felt like a weight pressing down on her. It wasn’t just the mess, though that was part of it—it was the feeling of being stuck, trapped in a space that no longer fit them.

She longed for more than this, for a place where they could breathe without stepping over piles of belongings. She envisioned that escape—a sanctuary where light would pour in through wide windows, where she could walk through open rooms without constantly dodging clutter. Where she could finally feel settled, rather than like they were always on the verge of chaos.

There was a time when she didn’t mind it, when the small apartment had felt like a temporary haven, something charming about its imperfections. But now, after everything they’d been through, after seeing what was possible, the desire to move out, to leave this place behind, had grown into something she could no longer ignore.

Her thoughts were interrupted by the sound of footsteps behind her. She turned to see her husband entering, his eyes tired but warm as they met hers.

“You alright?” he asked, noticing the frustration still etched in her expression.

Feyre gave him a small smile, but it didn’t reach her eyes. “I just… I think I’m ready. For a house. A home.” Her voice was soft but certain.

Rhys stepped closer, wrapping his arms around her in a comforting embrace. “We’ll make it happen,” he murmured into her hair. “Soon.”

And as Feyre leaned into his familiar warmth, the cramped apartment around them only solidified her determination. Soon wasn’t soon enough.

Previously, they’d discussed the option of moving, mostly in passing—an idea that hovered between them whenever the clutter became too much or when they both found themselves frustrated by the lack of space. The thought had always been tied to vague notions of the future, of what they wanted their lives to look like in the years to come. A bigger place, they’d say. More room to breathe. More room to grow.

But lately, the idea of moving had taken on a new weight, becoming less of a someday possibility and more of an immediate necessity. Especially as they began to talk more seriously about the future. About their future. 

Feyre had often caught herself imagining it during quiet moments, daydreaming about the future they would build together. They could finally have a proper dining table, not the tiny one currently crammed into the corner of their kitchen, barely big enough for two plates. Maybe they’d even have a room they could turn into a nursery—just in case.

The apartment had been good to them, a symbol of their early days, full of spontaneity and love. But as the days went on, Feyre had started to see it less as a home and more as a cage, the walls feeling like they were inching closer.

 She and Rhys had talked about children, too. 

It was always a soft, hopeful conversation, never rushed, but with each passing month, the idea became more tangible, more real. The thought of raising a child in this cluttered, cramped apartment, where they could barely move without tripping over something, made the idea of a home fit for a family more urgent.

Her husband, Rhys,  had always been more patient, content to take things step by step, but Feyre’s yearning for something more had grown stronger each day. She could feel it in her bones, a pull toward the future they both knew they wanted. They needed more space, more freedom. A place where they could lay down roots, not just for themselves, but for the family they hoped to create.

The thought warmed her, even as she stood in the mess of their apartment. Soon, she reminded herself. Soon, this would all be behind them. The cramped rooms, the clutter, the frustration—they would leave it all behind for something bigger, something better.

A place where they could build the life they’d been dreaming of.

***

“So” Rhys said finally, breaking their silence. “Do you want to open it, or shall I?”

Unable to help the corner of her mouth from upturning, Feyre moved away from her husband, clutching the keys as she pushed the main one into the keyhole, turning it until she heard the lock of the key.

Hesitating for a moment, Feyre felt Rhys’ hand on the small of her back, a reassuring action.

Taking a deep breath, Feyre pushed forwards, opening the door forward to reveal the empty hallway, the afternoon sun leaking from a window above the door, basking the house in its amber glow.

For a moment, Feyre stood there, letting the quiet grandeur of it sink in. The air smelled faintly of wood and fresh paint, untouched and new. It was theirs—this space, this home. Everything they had talked about, dreamed about, was waiting for them here.

Beside her, Rhys slipped his arm around her waist again, drawing her close. “What do you think?” he asked softly, his voice warm with affection.

Feyre's eyes swept over the hallway, the light dancing along the smooth wooden floor, and she felt a swell of emotions rise within her. “I think…” she started, her voice catching for a moment, “this is where we’re supposed to be.”

Before he could stop her, Feyre stumbled forward, laughter spilling from her lips as she darted into the next room. Her footsteps echoed lightly off the empty walls, and her laughter carried through the space, filling it with a sense of life that had been missing just moments ago. Her eyes lit up as she noticed a staircase in the far corner, winding gracefully around two of the walls like a ribbon of polished wood.

It was grand but not imposing, the bannister dark and smooth, beckoning her hands to explore. Without a second thought, Feyre sprinted toward it, her fingers grazing the railing as she ascended, her laughter bubbling up again. Each step echoed with her excitement as she twirled halfway up, her head tilted back to admire the spiral above.

“Come on, slowpoke!” she called back, her voice teasing, eyes sparkling as she glanced over her shoulder at Rhys, who was watching her with an amused grin.

Rhys, with his easy stride, followed her to the base of the staircase, shaking his head. 

“You’re going to hurt yourself, Feyre,” he warned, but his smile gave away his lack of concern. He loved seeing her like this—carefree, full of joy, her eyes wide with wonder at every new discovery.

Feyre reached the top of the stairs, breathless but exhilarated, and stopped for a moment to take it all in. The upper floor unfolded before her, the hallway stretching toward rooms yet unexplored. From here, she could see more windows, spilling sunlight into the space, and her heart skipped a beat as she imagined all the possibilities. Bedrooms, perhaps an office.

Maybe even a nursery someday.

She leaned against the bannister, catching her breath, and waited for Rhys to catch up. When he reached the top, his hands found her waist, pulling her gently toward him. “You’re like a little kid in a candy shop,” he murmured with a soft chuckle, pressing a kiss to her lips.

Feyre grinned into his mouth, her chest still rising and falling with excitement as she matched his passion. After a moment, she broke away, taking a second to catch her breath.

“I just… can’t believe it’s all ours.” she finally said. “I feel like I need to see every corner, every inch. Make sure it’s real.”

“It’s real,” Rhys assured her, his eyes soft as he gazed down at her. “And it’s only going to get better from here.”

For a moment, they stood there at the top of the stairs, wrapped in each other’s warmth, the quiet house around them filled with the promise of everything they had yet to build.

“Ours?” she asked, meeting his gaze.

Rhys nodded, his voice steady. “Yeah, ours.”

[feyreslover]

the “jokes” about feyre being illiterate or a bad painter are so tiring genuinely. y’all just want some way to hate her and that’s all you’ve got.

one thing that wasn’t her fault, and she’s since fixed !! yall forget she’s an avid reader by the end of acomaf she just doesn’t really have the time to read because she’s BUSY.

and the second obviously isn’t true for many reasons but my big two are;

1) every time any member of the inner circle (or anyone else) sees her paint they’re awed!! she’s talented and they all love her art, and the people & children she teaches love her art.

2) nesta (throughout the first four books before nesta stans rip my head off) makes fun of her for literally any tiny thing. if she wasn’t good at painting nesta would’ve bullied her about it, and it’s one thing that nesta never insults her about so what does that tell us? feyre is talented.

i don’t know why so many people want to hate feyre, sorry she’s gentle and kind while also being powerful and strong.

[feyreslover]

Sunlight: Oneshot

Synopsis:

A slice of life fic set in the early morning, as Feyre reflects on her love for her husband and children.

Rating: G

The early morning rays seeped through the messily closed blinds, kissing Feyres face as she slowly came to consciousness. half-asleep, she makes a mental note to ask Rhys to buy new ones, lest she lose anymore sleep then she normally does. Opening her eyes, the warm glow of the sun covers the furniture in her room.

Rhys, who's arm is slung across Feyres body, keeping her close, seems to still be asleep. Feyre notes this as her gaze scrapes over his face, soft with the morning light.

With soft movements, Feyre slowly reaches over, carefully moving wisps of hair from his closed eyes. Taking a moment, Feyre soaks in the beautiful nature of her slumbering husband, noting his strong cheekbones and onyx, thick eyelashes that Mor swears are unfair.

Nestling deeper into the bed, Feyre feels her husband shift, moving closer to Feyres frame. A low hum comes from Rhys as he slightly opens one eyes. Making eve contact, the couple simultaneously smile.

“Good morning my love” Rhys grumbles, his arm pulling her closer as he moves on top of her.

As Feyre lifts up her head to kiss him, she replies “good morning”

As their lips meet, Feyre melts into the kiss, reaching one hand up to cup his face, noting the slight stubble of his jaw. As Rhys hungrily kisses Feyre back, she moans at the contact, receiving an equally happy noise from Rhys in return. Happily willing to go further, Feyre goes to reach for the hem of her shirt. However, she pauses at the sound of feet patting outside her door. Rhys, who seemingly hears the same, makes a noise of annoyance as they break the kiss, his forehead coming to rest on hers as he closes his eyes.

“Are you ready?” Feyre mumbles.

“Ready as i'll ever be, Darling” He replies, looking into her eyes as an easy smile comes to rest on his lips.

Rolling off Feyres body, Rhys resumes a sleeping position, quickly closing his eyes. Feyre follows suit, wriggling deeper into the covers.

As expected by the couple, their door suddenly bangs open. Feyre, through squinted eyes, can somewhat make out the outlines of her two children as they come over to her husbands side.

She hears the oldest quietly countdown.

At one, the two children jump onto the bed, quickly reaching their father. Rhys lets out an oof at the weight of them on his body.

Rhys, to his credit, acts like they abruptly awoke him, a confused expression settling onto his face as he take in the two children jumping on him. one of feyre’s tattooed hands comes to rest on her mouth to cover her small smile.

“Wake up, wake up!” the two children chant.

“Alright, alright, alright!” Rhys responds, reaching up and softly pushing them over to the middle of the bed.

In a joint effort, Rhys and Feyre begin to tickle their children, relishing in the crazed giggles. Small “stops!” and “that tickles” come from the children, and Feyre heart sours at the fact that they, her favourite people, exist. that they're all in the bed together, enjoying the early morning.

Feyre makes eye contact with Rhys as the children manage to escape their hands, and her heart soars with the love she feels for her husband. she decides, in that moment, that she'll never be able to explain what she feels to him. Rather, she places a quick kiss upon his lips as she removes the covers off herself, swinging her legs out. As her feet touch the cool floor, Feyre feels a large hand come to rest on the small of her back.

Looking over he shoulder, she watches as her husband sits up. Sunlight catches in the messy nature of his hair. Its not words, Feyre silently realises, that hold her love.

It's the touches of her husband. The sound of their children downstairs. The smell of salt and citrus.

The adoration in her husbands eyes tells her that she doesn't have to say anything, anyway.

He knows. He always has.

[feyreslover]

Melodies of You: Chapter 4

Masterlist

Rhys stretched out his neck, leaning it to one side as he shook out his body, preparing for his workout. The air was cool, the faint scent of rubber mats and clean sweat filling the gym. He always found this place grounding, a sanctuary where the chaos of his mind could be quieted through physical exercise. The gym had always been his escape, the one place where he could push everything else aside and focus on the steady rhythm of his movements.

Sliding in his headphones, Rhys relaxed as the steady beat of the music coursed through him, syncing with the thrum of his pulse. The bass reverberated in his chest, spreading a sense of calm that eased the tension in his muscles. 

The sky was still a deep shade of indigo outside, the world around him still cloaked in darkness. He liked it that way—working out before dawn, when the city was still sleeping, gave him a sense of control. It was a routine he clung to, something constant amidst the unpredictability of his days.

As he began his workout, the gym lights cast long shadows across the equipment, the only sounds the hum of the machines and the muffled beat of his music, his muscles straining with each movement, accompanied with an all-too-familiar burn. 

The repetition, the discipline, it all soothed something inside him that nothing else could reach.

By the time the golden rays of the morning sun began to fully filter through the gym windows, Rhys was drenched in sweat, his skin glistening under the light. His biceps flexed as he pushed the button on the treadmill to stop, the machine slowing to a halt. His quickened breath came out in powerful puffs, each exhale reflecting the effort of the workout. Taking out his headphones, he took a moment to reflect.

The warmth of the sunlight spread across his body, illuminating the sheer perspiration that clung to his skin. Rhys let his eyes close, grateful for the feeling.

Routine would help him stay focused. Routine would help him forget her. Routine would-

“You alright there?” said a feminine voice, breaking through Rhys' consuming thoughts.

Looking up, Rhys came into contact with familiar brown eyes, accompanied with familiar brown skin.

Regaining a sense of his normal, cool demeanour, he replied. “You know me, why wouldn't I be” flashing a lopsided grin. A grin in which the girl in front of him mimicked. Yet, hers was laced with a twinge of guilt, one that Rhys knew all too well. “Anyway, how did you get here? You didn’t message me asking for a lift.” 

Standing at 5 '11, Lívia Almeidra was quite simply, a force to be reckoned with. At seventeen years old, she had a sharp wit and confidence that belied her age, often leaving those around her both impressed and slightly intimidated. 

Rhys couldn't help but feel a swell of pride whenever he looked at her—his little sister, who had grown into such a formidable young woman. He swore it was only yesterday that he held that small, weightless bundle of blankets, taking in the smallest features he’d ever seen. 

“Mor spent the night and she offered.” his sister said in a quick dismissal, eager to ignore his attempt to shift the attention onto her.  “Anyway, I know you may seem fine on the outside bu-”

“What do you know?” he cut in, his growing suspicion of his sister's ulterior motives becoming evident. His sister, it seemed, always had a knack for knowing more than she was supposed to.

“Nothing.”

“Lív-”

“I said nothing!” she retorted with an exasperated tone. “Can’t I just look out for my brother?”

“Not when that guilty look on your face tells me you’re instigating.” replied Rhys, one eyebrow raised as his sister threw her arms up in the air in Irritation.

“Okay, okay” Lívia finally relented, sitting down on an exercise machine with a huff. Rhys took in her outfit, her usual bright athletic wear. She had decided to go to the gym after watching Rhy’s, finally convincing their mother to pay for a membership. Not that it was something they couldn't afford, rather his sister lacked the ability to commit to things for long periods of time. God knew how many discarded objects lay in their garage.  

Despite her attempts to appear nonchalant, the tightness in her jaw and the way Lívia avoided his gaze betrayed her concern.

Rhys sighed, running a hand through his hair. “Look, I appreciate you checking in on me, but I’m fine. Really.” His tone was softer now, more reassuring, as he tried to ease the tension between them.

Lívia glanced up at him, her expression a mixture of scepticism and worry. “You don’t have to pretend with me, you know. I can tell when something’s off… plus-”

She hesitated, giving Rhy’s a wary look, before continuing. “Mor might have said something.”

Closing his eyes momentarily, Rhys paused, the weight of his thoughts pressing down on him again. Routine, he reminded himself. 

“It’s nothing I can’t handle,” he finally said, though he wasn’t sure if he was convincing her or himself. “I’m serious, it's nothing. Don’t you busybodies have anything else to gossip about?”

A cheeky grin spread across her face as her eyes went wide. “I’ve been waiting to tell you about this.”

***

Dropping Lívia off at school later, Rhys found himself lost in thought. As he navigated the morning traffic, his mind kept circling back to the conversation they’d had earlier. 

He could see it in the way his family looked at him during dinners, the subtle glances they exchanged when they thought he wasn’t paying attention.

He knew his family well enough to recognize their concerns, even if they didn’t voice them outright. 

His mother, in particular, had a way of bringing up topics that seemed casual on the surface but were loaded with underlying meaning. Whether it was a comment about his work hours or a gentle reminder about the importance of balance, she always managed to convey her worries without directly confronting him. She had experienced first-hand what overworking could lead to, through his father, and swore on multiple occasions that she wouldn't let her children experience the same.

His mother wasn't the most subtle, often hinting that Rhys should take more time for himself, perhaps even consider a vacation. But Rhys wasn’t sure how to explain that keeping busy was his way of coping, his method of pushing past the thoughts and memories that threatened to pull him under if he allowed them to linger for too long.

“Hey,” Lívia’s voice broke through his reverie, bringing him back to the present. She was already gathering her bag, preparing to step out of the car. “You sure you’re okay?”

Rhys forced a smile, meeting her concerned gaze. “I’m good, Lívia. Don’t worry about me.”

She hesitated for a moment, then nodded, giving him a quick side hug from the passenger's seat before getting out of the car. “Just remember what I said, okay? I’m here if you need me. Also please come home? We miss you. Mama misses you.”

“I will,” he promised, watching her shut the door and walk towards the school entrance. A twinge of guilt filtered through Rhys as he took in his sister's words. He tried to visit back home. He had no real excuse, it wasn't really a long drive, only being thirty minutes away from his apartment. He just-

Cassian's name popped up on the middle console of the vehicle, distracting Rhys from his thoughts,  the noise of the call reverberating around his car.

Pressing the green button with a small sigh, Rhys answered. “Yes?”

“Well hello to you too. I’m doing great, thanks for asking.”  Came his voice through the speaker.

“Is there a reason you called?”

“Yes actually. Hosting dinner on the 24th, everyone will be there. Even you.” 

“And this couldn't have been sent over text.”

“It would have been bold of me to assume you would send one back.”  He retorted, causing Rhys to cluck his tongue in annoyance.

Huffing, he replied. “It's definitely bold of you to assume that ill even be attending”

“C’mon Rhys, you've skipped out on the past few. We barely see you besides the casual bar night. Hey, speaking of bars, maybe you could invite mystery woman? Nes' is intrigued.”

Rhys couldn't stop the scoff that left his throat as he said, “I don't even have her phone number, let alone her name.”

After a big pause, Cassian replied. “It never hurts to try. She doesn't seem like someone you’re ‘one and done’ with.”

Entering his work’s underground parking lot, Rhys spoke. “I have to go,... i'll come to the dinner”

“Great. And I'll maybe set another plate?”

***

The ticks of the clock seemed to mock Rhys, the hands seemingly becoming slower and slower as they crept closer to 7, his usual clocking off time these days. 

The fluorescent light above him flickered slightly, casting a cold, sterile glow over the stacks of papers and the persistent hum of his computer. Each passing second felt like a subtle jab, reminding him that time, unlike his workload, was finite.

Reviewing the never-ending stream of emails, Rhys felt heavy in his office chair, as if the weight of his responsibilities was pressing him down, refusing to let him rise. 

His eyes skimmed over the words, the lines blurring together into a monotonous string of demands, questions, and expectations. He tried to focus, to summon the energy to tackle just one more task, but his mind was clouded with fatigue, his thoughts sluggish.

He leaned back, closing his eyes for a brief moment, hoping to gather some semblance of strength. The silence of the empty office around him felt suffocating, amplifying the pressure he carried. 

He had to get out.

***

Leaving the car at the office, like he normally did when wanting to stay in the downtown area of Verlaris, Rhys found himself walking without direction, not even registering other people on the side path. 

The bustling cityscape around him was starting to blur into a sea of movement and noise. He’d been so absorbed in his own world that he hadn’t noticed how the evening had crept up on him. 

The lights of Verlaris were beginning to glow brighter, casting a warm, golden hue over the streets. Rhys paused for a moment, taking in the scene. The city had a different energy at night, more relaxed yet still vibrant. He ran a hand through his hair, trying to shake off the distraction of the day.

Maybe a walk through the quieter parts of downtown would help him clear his mind.

Checking his wrist watch, Rhys was surprised to find the time almost being 8:30. He hadn’t noticed how much time had passed while he aimlessly wandered. The sun was dipping below the horizon, and the city lights were beginning to flicker on.

He sighed, knowing he needed to make a decision about how to spend the rest of his evening. With a sense of both relief and urgency, he decided to find a spot where he could collect his thoughts and maybe grab a bite to eat.

Without realising, Rhys wound up outside a run-down dive bar. 

The dive bar, he realised.

Peering through the window in a moment of unguarded curiosity, Rhys's breath caught in his throat. 

There she was, sitting at the bar along the far wall, just as she had that night.

That night, Rhys repeated in his mind as he inhaled deeply.

***

Establishments like this weren’t Rhy’s forte. He’d much rather be at a more refined bar, maybe the one Mor worked at.

Stepping inside the smaller bar, Rhys was met with a mostly empty inside, a few people sitting at tables drinking and snacking on smaller entrees.  

Walking up to order a drink, Rhys noticed a woman sitting by herself, an empty glass sitting in front of her as she was silently lost in thought.

Taking in her side profile, Rhys noticed the beautiful curve of her nose, accompanied with full red lips. 

“You seemed quite bored.” He said after a while, taking a seat next to her.

***

“There you are, I’ve been looking for you.”

Rhys watched as the woman stilled at the sound of his voice. Her posture shifted, back straightening as if bracing for something. 

When she finally turned to face him, their eyes locked—her striking blue eyes hovered above a delicate constellation of freckles that spanned her cheeks, a feature he remembered all too well. She wasn’t wearing makeup like the last time they were together, nevertheless she was still breathtaking.

Her lips parted slightly, as if in awe, as she took in the sight of him. It was as if time had frozen for that brief moment, the world around them fading into the background.

“You’re here,” she whispered, her expression unguarded, her voice filled with a mix of disbelief and something deeper, something that sent a jolt through him. He would be lying to himself if he pretended those words didn’t stir something within him. Had she been haunted by their one night together, months ago, as intensely as he had?

She seemed to collect herself, the surprise melting into something more controlled, though the rawness still lingered in her eyes. “Hello, stranger,” she finally said, her voice light but edged with a subtle tension.

Rhys, suddenly without knowing what to say, looked down at his shoes. God, why was this so hard?

“Feyre,” she added in the quiet space between them.

“What—” Rhys began as he lifted his head back up, but she cut him off, her voice soft but firm.

“My name. It’s Feyre.”

Feyre. The name suited her, beautiful and mysterious, much like the woman herself.

“Hello, Feyre,” he replied, striving to keep his tone casual even as every fibre of his being wanted to convey the emotions surging within him. “I’m Rhysand, but my friends call me Rhys.”

An unreadable expression flickered across her face, and for a moment, Rhys wondered if she recognized him—truly remembered that night—or if she was merely trying to place him within the context of her life.

“Are you alright?” he asked, though the irony of his question wasn’t lost on him. The one pretending to be okay was asking if she was.

Feyre’s eyes flickered with something he couldn’t quite decipher, and for a fleeting moment, he feared he might have overstepped. She tilted her head slightly, as if weighing her response.

“I’m fine,” she replied softly, though the slight tremor in her voice betrayed her. “Just… thinking.”

Rhys felt his chest tighten, a surreal feeling o deja vu swirling inside his mind. He knew that look, that carefully constructed facade hiding something deeper, something raw. He recognised it because it was the same mask he wore, more often than he cared to admit. The mask, he remembered, that Feyre had on the first time he saw her.

“You don’t have to pretend with me, Feyre,” he said gently, his voice dropping to a whisper as if sharing a secret. “Not here.”

For a moment, the barrier between them seemed to crack, her vulnerability mirrored in his own. But just as quickly, the walls went back up. Feyre straightened, her expression hardening into something more controlled, more practised.

“I hardly know you, Rhysand,” she said, the conviction in her voice underscoring the distance she wanted to keep between them. She didn’t see them as friends, which he couldn’t entirely blame her for. They were strangers. Strangers who knew each other’s bodies.

He felt his cheeks warm slightly at the thought.

With a brief, pained look, Feyre continued. “We all have our burdens, Rhys,” she said, her voice steadier now, as if reclaiming her composure. “Some just carry them differently.”

Rhys nodded, understanding more than he wished he did. “And sometimes,” he said, his tone still soft but infused with a quiet determination, “it helps to have someone to share the load.”

Feyre met his gaze, her eyes searching in his, and for a heartbeat, it felt as if the world had narrowed down to just the two of them.

“I would be lying,” she began after a moment, her eyes dropping to the bar top as if finding solace in its worn surface, “if I said I wasn’t happy to see you again.”

Rhys’s smile softened at her words. “It’s safe to say that’s reciprocated.”

He slid onto the stool next to her, his gaze never leaving her. As he settled in, the bartender, a woman with a stern expression and sharp eyes, cast Feyre a concerned look. “If you need me to kick him out, just say the word,” she said, her tone laced with protective authority.

Feyre’s laughter broke the tension, a sound that filled the air like music. She tilted her head back, the light catching her hair as it fell in waves, and for a brief moment, the weariness in her seemed to lift. Rhys watched her, captivated, but also puzzled. Did the bartender know Feyre? Had he somehow offended someone in their brief interaction?

Composing herself, Feyre shook her head, still smiling. “I think we’re good here. But thank you,” she replied, her voice warm with gratitude.

Rhys turned toward her, his expression curious, waiting for an explanation. Feyre caught his look and let out a small sigh, her smile becoming more tentative.

“I’ve been here for an hour,” she began, a hint of embarrassment colouring her tone. “I believe she thought I’d been stood up.” A slight, almost shy smile played on her lips as she continued, “But actually, I came here to try and find you.”

Rhys blinked in surprise, his eyebrows lifting as he processed her words. She’d come looking for him? The revelation sent a surge of warmth through him, mingled with the nervous excitement that had been simmering beneath the surface since he’d spotted her.

“I wasn’t sure if you’d even remember me,” Feyre admitted, her voice quieter now, as if confessing something she’d been holding onto for too long. “But I couldn’t get that night out of my head. I needed to know if… If it meant something to you, too”

Rhys felt his chest tighten at the vulnerability in her words. He’d been grappling with the same questions, haunted by the memory of their connection, wondering if it had been just as significant for her.

“It meant everything,” Rhys finally said, his voice low and earnest, the weight of his confession evident in every word. He had spent countless nights replaying that fleeting connection in his mind, unable to shake the memory of her.

 “I’ve thought about you every day since.”

Feyre’s breath caught at his admission, and she turned to fully face him, her eyes shimmering with unshed tears, threatening to spill. The emotion in her gaze struck him like a physical force, the vulnerability she had tried so hard to conceal now diminished under the weight of his words.

“Feyre, what—” Rhys began, his concern rising as he noticed the tears continue to well up in her eyes, but before he could finish, she cut him off, her voice trembling.

“I have to tell you something,” she said, her words shaky, as if she were mustering the courage to continue.

Rhys felt the air thicken around them, the weight of her words pressing down on him, but nothing could have prepared him for what came next.

“I’m pregnant,” she whispered, her voice breaking slightly as she finally let the truth slip free.

Time seemed to freeze. Rhys stared at her, his heart pounding in his chest as the words hung in the air between them, heavy and inescapable. The world around them faded, there was nothing other than them.

He searched her face, his mind racing to process what she had just said. Her cheeks glistened in streaks. 

The raw emotion etched across her features, it all painted a picture of the struggle she must have faced in telling him this, and the weight she had been carrying alone.

“Feyre,” he whispered, his voice barely audible as he reached out, his hand hovering just above hers on the bar. 

“I—” He faltered, unsure of what to say, how to respond, when his own emotions were a chaotic swirl of shock, concern, and something deeper, something he couldn’t yet name. 

Pregnant. Pregnant.

She wouldn't be telling him if the baby wasn't his. 

All he knew was that this moment, this revelation, had irrevocably changed everything.

[feyreslover]

just want you to know i just read ur fic and i've never been more intrigued ab where the plot is gonna end up! it's so good and im looking forward to following it along

Thank you so much! 😊 I'm thrilled to hear you're enjoying the story and that the plot has you intrigued! It means a lot to know you're looking forward to where it's headed. Can't wait to share more.

I'm very excited to continue writing the fic, i hope it lives up to expectations. Thanks for reaching out <3

[feyreslover]

Melodies of You: Chapter 3

Synopsis:

Feyre mulls over conflicting feelings towards her situation.

Warning: rated mature, (slight) toxic past-relationship

Masterlist

This is an automated response to confirm that you have a doctor's appointment scheduled on 21st of August at 13:00. Please arrive 10 minutes early for check-in. If you need to reschedule or cancel, please reply 'Reschedule' or 'Cancel' to this message, or call our office directly. We look forward to seeing you! Velaris Medical Centre.

Feyre’s hands slightly trembled as she held her phone, re-reading the message, the vegetables she was cutting momentarily forgotten. The starkness of the appointment date seemed to mock her, a looming reminder that the decisions she had been avoiding were no longer theoretical. 

The 21st. Four days away.

She stared at the screen, her mind racing. This was real. There was no more time to push it to the back of her mind, no more pretending that it wasn’t happening. 

The knife in her hand hovered above the chopping board, her grip loosening as the weight of it all began to settle. 

She had been so careful not to let herself dwell too long on what was coming, afraid that if she did, she might break under the pressure. But now, faced with the undeniable reality, there was no more room for avoidance.

Taking a deep breath, Feyre set the phone down on the counter, on top of scattered papers and pieces of mail that she'd elected to ignore, not wanting to know what was inside of them. Forcing herself to focus on the task at hand, She picked up the knife again, resuming the rhythmic chop of the vegetables, trying to steady herself with the familiarity of the routine. 

But her thoughts kept drifting back to the appointment, the questions she had yet to answer, and the future she was still struggling to envision.

Bills, it seemed, tended to dictate her life. The old medical balances and student loans were never ending, and Feyres pay-checks always seemed to make an insignificant dent. Her job, which entailed a junior management position at a smaller art gallery, didn't pay awful per say. Rather the expenses of living were becoming increasingly demanding.

Feyre felt a bitter feeling sink into her stomach. If she was going to keep the baby, she’d have to find another way to gain money, as she was really not in the financial position to support herself, let alone a child. 

She remembered the café across the road from her apartment had stuck ‘hiring now’ posters on the windows. The thought of working there filled her with a mix of dread and determination. It wasn’t what she had planned for herself, but plans had a way of unravelling when you least expected it.

The last time she had walked by, the café had been buzzing with people, laughter and conversation spilling out onto the sidewalk. It had looked cozy, inviting even, but Feyre couldn’t shake the feeling that it would be yet another place where she would have to be a different person. 

But what choice would she have if she continued the pregnancy? The baby growing inside her was a silent, constant reminder that things were different now. She needed some form of stability, something to cling to even if the rest of her life was ever so slowly spinning out of control.

She ran a hand over her still-flat stomach, feeling a pang of anxiety. This baby, unplanned, unexpected, was already changing everything. She hadn’t even had time to process the news before the reality of her situation started to close in on her. A second job wouldn’t be ideal, leading feyre to sacrifice her weekends to make ends meet, but it was a start. 

It was something she could control.

In a moment of clarity, Feyre laughed at herself, at the situation at hand.  She wasn’t on the pill, but they’d used protection. 

Of course, she wasn't stupid. she had heard all the stories, the rare instances where things didn’t work out as planned, where fate had other ideas. But she had never imagined she would be one of those stories. 

It was almost ironic. She had always been so careful, so mindful of the consequences, and yet here she was, the exception to the rule. The universe had a twisted sense of humour it seemed, and right now, it felt like the joke was on her. It had always been on her.

But the laugh died in her throat as reality settled back in. This was real, not some cautionary tale she could distance herself from. She could feel the weight of it, pressing down on her shoulders, reminding her that she couldn’t laugh this away.

Once, she might have held idealistic fantasies of being a mother. With him. 

As Feyre stood in the dimly lit kitchen, her fingers gripping the edge of the counter as she tried to steady her breathing, the sound of his voice, sharp and laced with irritation, echoed in her mind.

***

“I thought we agreed you weren’t supposed to see those people,” Tamlin said, his voice laced with a dangerous edge as he spoke through clenched teeth. His hand gripped the top of the chair so tightly that his knuckles turned white, the tension in his body radiating through the room. His eyes, usually calm in their green nature, now bore into her with an intensity that made the air feel stagnant.

The chair creaked under the pressure of his grip, a small but telling sound that echoed in the silence between them. The unspoken accusation hung in the air, thickening the atmosphere with the weight of his unyielding control. Tamlin's eyes narrowed, his frustration simmering just beneath the surface, threatening to spill over, a wildfire Feyre wasn’t able to control.

The room seemed to shrink around Feyre as she met his gaze, the space between them charged with tension. Every muscle in his body was coiled tight, ready to spring, and she knew that any response she gave would only fan the flames of his anger.

***

He would whisper sweet nothings to her after moments of intimacy about their future family. 

His voice, smooth and laced with a warmth that always caught her off guard, painted vivid pictures of a life they could share. He would describe the estate they would own, outside the city, of course, where their large brood would be nurtured and flourish.

***

"Imagine it, Feyre," he murmured, his breath warm against her ear as they lay tangled in the sheets. "A sprawling estate with rolling hills and ancient trees, far from the chaos of the city. Our children running through the fields, their laughter echoing across the yard."

She closed her eyes and let herself be carried away by his words, picturing the idyllic life he so effortlessly conjured. He made it sound so perfect, so attainable, like it was just waiting for them to reach out and take it.

He went  on, detailing the rooms of the house—the cozy nursery where their babies would sleep, the grand library where they’d read stories together by the fire. "You’ll see," he said, pressing a kiss to her forehead, "we’ll build something beautiful, something that will last."

***

In those moments, she almost believed him. It was easy to get lost in his dreams, to imagine that they could be hers too. But even as she smiled and nodded, a small voice in the back of her mind would whisper doubts, reminding her that words were just… words. The promises, made in the quiet of the night, fading with the morning light.

She was young. Young and naive and willing to cling onto anything that showed her love and affection. 

Feyre leaned back against the wall, taking a deep breath. She had always prided herself on being resilient. But this…this was different. 

Feyre wondered if resilience was something she had chosen, or if it had been thrust upon her by the hardships of her past. She never really gave herself the chance to grieve the loss of her childhood, too busy fighting against the persistent force of life. 

This wasn’t just about her anymore. It was about the life growing inside her, and the responsibility that came with it., if she did decide to keep the baby.

She didn't even want to think about herself being a mother. Her own had secured every insecurity around motherhood into Feyre from a young age, ensuring the title would forever come with unwanted heavy baggage for her. 

However, despite the fear and uncertainty, there was a small, almost imperceptible part of her that was ready to fight, whatever her choice was. 

She wasn’t sure where that strength was coming from, but she knew it was there, waiting for the moment she would need it most.

Yet, she didn't feel like the brave persona she’d put on that night. 

She knew that ultimately, the choice was hers to make. The weight of that decision pressed heavily on her, a constant reminder that she alone was responsible for what came next. But despite that, a pang of guilt gnawed at the edges of her resolve, whispering that she should at least try to reach out to him, to let him know.

There was something about the idea of not giving him a chance that felt wrong, even if she wasn’t sure what his reaction would be—or if she even wanted to know. The truth was, she didn’t even know how to find him. 

They had never exchanged addresses or numbers, their connection fleeting and undefined, more of a shared moment in time than anything else. To be fair, it was her fault for that, for leaving before the sun had risen, slipping out quietly while he was still asleep.

She hadn’t wanted to face the awkwardness of the morning after, the questions or the potential rejection. It had been easier to disappear, to keep the memory of that night untouched by reality. It terrified her in that moment, the chance of something more. But now, as she stood on the precipice of a life-changing decision, she couldn’t help but wonder if her hasty departure had robbed them both of something important.

Had she been too quick to assume he wouldn’t care, or that he wouldn’t want to be involved in something more?

Her thoughts spiralled, each one pulling her deeper into a web of doubt and regret. She wasn’t sure if reaching out was the right thing to do, or just another complication in an already overwhelming situation. To be fair, she was the one who decided to make the interaction anonymous. 

But the guilt lingered, reminding her that some part of this wasn’t just about her—that he had a right to know, even if it was her choice.

She wasn’t sure how to begin, but going from the beginning wouldn't hurt, right?

*** 

As she entered the dimly lit dive bar, she chose to ignore the feeling of the sticky floor under her boots. Looking around, it was quite empty. A group of men sat around a high table, their eyes glued to tv, hiked up high on the wall, displaying a sporting game. 

Deciding to sit in the same spot she chose the last time she was there, she went to order a drink, something strong, before remembering that she couldn't do that. Foregoing an alcoholic beverage, she asked the bartender for a lemonade, mixing the ice cubes aimlessly with a straw after it arrived.

She told herself that she would wait an hour to see if he would show up. She didn't even know if he frequented this bar, let alone would be going tonight.  

At the fifteen minute mark, Feyre had finished her drink.

At half-an-hour, she was on her third lemonade, surprising herself by idly watching the football game on the tv to pass the time.

At forty-five minutes, her back ached from sitting on the backless stool as she began cursing herself for even coming. 

Looking at the unusual clock on the wall, shaped as a novelty beer bottle, She counted down the seconds to 8:30.

Frowning as the longer hand hit the 6 mark, Feyre rummaged in her bag for her wallet, the collection of glasses already cleaned up by a staff member. Fishing out a note, she handed it over to the bartender. Grateful for the cheap price of the sugary drink, Feyre didn't chide herself for spending too much money. Slumping her shoulders, she couldn't help the feeling of disappointment that spread throughout her.  

this was such a stupid, futile thing to do, she told herself.

The worker accepting her cash give her a sad smile, telling Feyre that from her perspective, it looked like she’d been stood up. Not wanting to feel the weight of her pitying look longer than she had to, Feyre went to make her leave.

However, before her feet hit the floor, she stilled at the sound of a low rumble from behind her.

His voice. 

“There you are, I’ve been looking for you ”

[feyreslover]

Melodies of You: Chapter 2

Synopsis:

Rhys is distracted by thoughts of a recent, unforgettable one-night stand. As he navigates the busy streets of Velaris, memories of the mysterious woman linger, consuming his thoughts and emotions.

To put it simply, Rhysand Almedra was having a shit day at work. His hair, once meticulously gelled back, now hung in damp, unruly strands across his forehead, a testament to the relentless hours he’d endured. His shoulders ached from the hunched position he’d held for far too long, and he could almost hear his mother’s voice in his head, chiding him with that familiar tone of concern.

Rhysand!, she would say, You’ll get a hunchback sitting like that.

Grateful for the solitude offered by his office's four walls, Rhys leaned back in his chair, groaning as he stretched out his stiff limbs. The movement sent a dull, yet satisfying, pain through his muscles, and as his arms extended above his head, his gaze drifted to the clock on the opposite wall.

6:45. Shit.

He had promised his brothers that he’d meet them at a bar downtown—forty-five minutes ago.

He reached down for his bag, which lay slouched against the side of his desk, pulling out his phone. The screen's light cut through the shadowed office, save for the cool, persistent glow of his computer.

The three missed calls from Cassian and two texts from Azriel were glaring reminders of how much time had slipped through his tired fingers. Rhysand sighed, closing his laptop with a soft click before slipping it into a sleek, black case. The muffled noise of rush hour traffic filtering through the windows below confirmed what he already suspected: hailing a cab would be futile, and walking might take just as long.

After packing up the rest of his belongings, he exited the otherwise deserted office, save for the few cleaners quietly sweeping the floors. As he pressed the lift button, calling the elevator, Rhys dialled Cassian.

After two rings, a low, monotone voice answered. “Well, well, well, we thought you’d forgotten about us.”

The sound of the elevator doors opening reminded Rhys to step inside. Wincing, he replied, “I’ll be there in ten minutes, tops. I just had a lot on my plate tonight and didn’t—”

“Didn’t keep track of time. We know,” Cassian interjected, cutting him off.

Snorting softly, Rhys ended the call with a quick, “I’ll see you guys soon.”

As he slipped his phone back into his pocket, Rhys exited the elevator and walked through the glass doors of the office, passing the slouched security guard, his head propped on his hand as he half-asleep grumbled a good night. 

Stepping out onto the bustling street, Rhys began his brisk walk to the bar, Skillfully manoeuvring around dawdling tourists and slow walkers. His mind began to wander back to his newest obsession.

the one-night stand that had left him reeling, with the woman disappearing before he could even get her name.

***

Cold, blue eyes framed by mascara-laden lashes met his as she lay on her back, her pale skin contrasting starkly with the darker tones of his silk sheets.

The small smile that played on her lips, coupled with the faint flush on her cheeks, told Rhys everything he needed to know. Inhaling deeply, his gaze had dropped to her swollen lips, her pupils dilating as he reached for her.

Her eyes had travelled slowly down his shirtless torso, pausing at the waistband of his pants that hung low on his hips. She bit her lip, and—

***

Someone bumped into his shoulder, jolting Rhys back into the present.

A gruff voice broke through his thoughts. “Watch where you’re going, corporate hotshot!”. The stranger, an older man with furrowed brows, glared at him in frustration.

“Sorry,” Rhys mumbled as he averted his eyes, eager to put the interaction behind him as quickly as possible. This woman, he realised, was driving him mad. He couldn’t shake the feeling that there was something more to that one-night stand, something that kept pulling him back to that night.

Yet, even now, as he neared his destination, a familiar warmth spread low in his stomach at the memory of her. The soft glow from the bar's windows spilled onto the sidewalk, casting Rhys's deep blue suit in a golden light.

The familiar buzz of laughter and clinking glasses greeted him as he stepped inside, the cozy, inviting atmosphere a stark contrast to the cold night outside. A slightly raised stage was set up in the corner of the establishment, where a young woman sat on a stool, softly strumming a guitar for the half-attentive patrons The walls, decked with dated Jazz posters and blown up photos of what Rhys assumed to be an Italian coast added accents of character to the bar. His eyes scanned the room, searching for his two friends, quickly catching sight of two familiar figures in the corner.

Walking over, Cassian was the first to notice him, raising his beer in a lazy salute, a knowing smirk playing on his lips. Azriel followed suit, turning around with a rare smile as Rhys approached.

"Brother", Azriel mused as Rhys reached the pair. "Long time no see"

"Come off it" Rhys replied with a smile, slapping him on the shoulder as he sat on the leather stool next to them. 

"Oh poor Rhys" Cassian chided, signalling the bartender over. "Finally gets a promotion at his new job and everyone is getting on his ass for overworking. He can’t even take time out to see his family. God knows what his mother thinks."

The bartender, a familiar face behind the counter, set down a whiskey on a coaster with a manicured hand, her voice warm and teasing as she chimed in. “Give him a break, Cas. He’s finally making waves in the corporate world. Let the man enjoy his moment.” 

"Thank you for the recognition Mor" Said Rhys, turning towards his cousin with a smirk.

"God Knows you need it" Morrigan replied, before turning her attention towards the drink she was starting to prepare. 

"His head certainly doesn't" Murmured Azriel, earning an amused look from Mor and a poorly hidden snicker from Cassian.

Slightly shaking his head in mock annoyance, Rhys lifted the cool glass to his lips. The whiskey shimmered in the glass, its amber hue catching the dim light of the bar. 

He would never admit it, but his promotion was long overdue.

Rhys had sacrificed the best years of his early twenties to the company, diving straight into the corporate grind right after college, while his friends were still out chasing the fleeting joys of youth. The toll it took on his well-being was inevitable, though he rarely allowed himself to acknowledge it.

Instead of losing himself in the neon haze of nightclubs, high on adrenaline and cheap thrills, Rhys spent his nights hunched over in a cramped cubicle, the dim glow of his desk lamp casting long shadows on the stacks of paperwork and outdated files that cluttered his desk. The silence of the empty office was broken only by the scratch of his pen or the rustle of turning pages, each late night bleeding into the next in an endless cycle of exhaustion.

 Sure, his borderline obsessive work ethic wasn’t entirely necessary. The Almedra family had been set up comfortably, thanks to his father’s success in the business world. The man had built an empire, leaving Rhys and his sister with an inheritance so vast it was almost obscene. However, Rhys wanted to make a name for himself. 

He didn’t want to mooch off his inheritance. He wanted to build something of his own, to carve out a place in the world that was entirely his. The grind was quite plainly, brutal, the hours long and the work mind-numbing, but it was his. Every promotion, every achievement, was a step closer to proving that he could make a name for himself, independent of the fortune that had been handed to him.

The slight burn of the whisky, as it went down his throat, reminded him of the last time he’d drank it.

With her.

***

Sipping her Manhattan, the woman eyed Rhys, her gaze lingering on his formal attire, particularly his suit jacket. Her expression was a mix of curiosity and caution as she studied him.

Rhys cleared his throat, trying to break the silence. “So, could I get your name?” he asked, trying to maintain a sense of politeness in an otherwise curious tone. 

The change in her demeanour was almost instantaneous, as if a switch had flipped. Her earlier confidence wavered, replaced by a trace of unease. Her voice, when she finally spoke, was measured, almost hesitant. “I’d rather you not.”

She shifted in her seat, her fingers absently toying with the stem of her glass. Rhys raised an eyebrow, a small, confused smile playing on his lips. “You’d rather not?” he echoed, clearly puzzled by her response.

“I don’t feel like being myself tonight,” she admitted, turning away from him to face the bar, her shoulders slightly hunched as if retreating into herself.

Rhys followed her movements, adjusting his position in his seat. “Right,” he murmured, the air between them growing thick with awkwardness. This wasn’t at all how he’d envisioned the conversation going.

An uncomfortable silence settled over them, and Rhys could feel the tension mounting. He tried to assess her body language, evidently closed off, distant. The thought crossed his mind that she was trying to push him away. Maybe it was time to leave, before she grew too uncomfortable.

With a soft tap on the bar, Rhys stood up, deciding to give her the space she seemed to want. “I’ll leave you alone then,” he said, his voice gentle as he met her eyes one last time. There was something unreadable in her gaze, a flicker of emotion he couldn’t quite place.

He turned to leave, but before he could take more than a step, he felt her hand grasp his bicep, her warm touch firm, yet tentative.

“Wait,” she said, her voice a whisper that held him in place.

Rhys turned back to her, their eyes locking in a moment of shared understanding. “I’m sorry,” she whispered, her eyes softening with an apology. He couldn’t help but notice how truly beautiful she was, the vulnerability in her expression only adding to her allure. “I haven’t really done this before.”

Rhys glanced down at her hand still resting on his arm. “This?” he asked gently.

A blush rose to her freckled cheeks, her embarrassment clear as she quickly pulled her hand back, clutching it to her chest as if she’d been scorched. Her head lowered, and her voice softened further. “The flirty conversation... the setup for a one-night stand,” she admitted, her words tinged with a mix of uncertainty and self-consciousness.

Rhys tilted his head slightly, intrigued by her admission. “There’s no rulebook for this kind of thing,” he said, his tone gentle, almost reassuring. “We’re just two people having a drink, right?”

She glanced up at him, a small, tentative smile forming on her lips. “I suppose so,” she murmured, the tension in her shoulders easing slightly.

Taking a seat again, Rhys kept his gaze on her, noting the way her fingers played nervously with the  lipstick stained rim of her glass. He decided to shift the conversation away from the awkwardness, hoping to put her more at ease. “So, if you’re not feeling like yourself tonight, who do you want to be?”

She chuckled softly, the sound carrying a hint of relief, igniting an unrecognisable feeling within him. “Anyone but me,” she replied, her eyes meeting his, a playful expression gracing her face. “Maybe a woman who’s bold. Someone who converses with mysterious strangers in run down dive bars ”

Rhys smiled, leaning back slightly in his chair. “You know, you’re the mysterious one of this interaction. Ms “Anyone but me”. I’m just trying to work you out ”

She looked at him curiously, as if trying to figure out his angle. “What are you trying to find”

“About what you want,” he suggested  simply. “About what you’re looking for—tonight, or in general.”  

She took a sip of her drink, contemplating his words. “And what about you?” she asked, her voice quieter now, almost as if she were afraid of the answer. “What are you looking for?”

Rhys paused, considering the question, noting her subtle attempt to shift the focus onto him. He could feel the weight of the moment, the unspoken hanging in the air between them. 

“Honestly?” he began, his voice maintaining a steady tone, “I came here tonight to unwind, escape the busyness of out there. But now-” he paused, taking in her face, framed by strands of dark blond hair. “I’m not so sure.”

She raised an eyebrow, her interest piqued. “Not so sure?”

“Not so sure that’s all I’m looking for,” Rhys said, his gaze steady on hers. “I’m not in a rush to leave, if that’s what you’re wondering.”

She smiled again, this time with more confidence, the corners of her mouth lifting in a way that made her eyes sparkle. “Maybe I’m not either,” she admitted, a subtle shift in her posture indicating she was beginning to relax, facing more towards Rhys.

The conversation between them began to flow more easily after that, the earlier awkwardness fading into the background. They steered clear from talking about personal topics, opting to share vague stories and similar interests. The bartender refilled their drinks, the amber liquid glinting in the low light of the bar as the night stretched on.

As they spoke, Rhys found himself genuinely enjoying her company. She was witty, sharp, and surprisingly open, once she got past her initial hesitation. He noticed the way she seemed to come alive when she laughed, a melody which had her whole face lighting up in a way that made it hard to look away. 

Eventually, they couldn't help as the conversation turned more personal, dipping into the things that were usually reserved for more familiar company. “I didn’t expect to be here tonight,” she confessed, her voice softening. “I almost didn’t come out at all.”

“Why did you?” Rhys asked, genuinely curious.

“Because sometimes…”, she stopped, giving him a look.

Rhys nodded in understanding “Yeah, I get that.”

Their eyes met again, and for a moment, the noise of the bar seemed to fade away. There was something between them now, an unspoken connection that neither of them could deny. 

Rhys began, “So, would you—” but his words were abruptly silenced as the woman firmly slid cash across the bar, her eyes locking onto him with such intensity that he couldn’t look away.

***

“Hello? Rhys?”

Looking up from his glass, Rhys was met with three pairs of expectant eyes, different expressions of confusion. 

Clearing his throat, Rhys replied, “Sorry?”

“Where did you go just then?” questioned Mor, Subconsciously polishing a glass with a white rag.

“Uh” mumbled Rhys, not wanting to reveal his daydreaming, not even to his closest people. “Just thinking about a project.”, winching at his first response being about his work. Unforntuatly, his friends knew him better than that.

“I know what this is about,” said Cassian, giving Rhys a knowing look. “He's hung up”

Rhys raised an eyebrow, trying to play it off. "Hung up? On what?"

Cassian smirked, leaning back in his chair with a casual confidence. "Oh, come on, don’t play dumb. We all know you’ve been distracted lately, and it’s not because of work."

Azriel, who had been quietly observing, chimed in with his usual calm demeanour. "He’s right, Rhys. You’ve been somewhere else for weeks now. Something’s got you all...", waving his hand in a broad gesture towards Rhys

Rhys felt a heat rise to his cheeks, but he forced a chuckle, taking a sip of his drink to buy time. "You guys are imagining things. I’ve just been busy, that’s all. You all said that yourselves"

His two brothers seemed to understand Rhys' dismissal, knowing not to push him too far. 

It seemed that Mor, however, wasn’t convinced. She set the polished glass down with a gentle clink and tilted her head, eyes narrowing in that perceptive way she had. "It’s more than that, Rhys. You’re distracted. And if it’s not work, then…" She let her words hang in the air, waiting for him to fill in the blanks.

Rhys sighed, realising there was no escaping their curiosity. "Alright, fine," he conceded, running a hand through his already tousled hair. "There’s… someone. But it’s nothing serious, just—"

"Here we go, a mystery woman!" Cassian interrupted, his grin widening. "Now it all makes sense. C’mon Rhys, Tell us more. Who is she?"

Rhys hesitated, his thoughts drifting back to those cold blue eyes, the way she had looked at him with both defiance and something else—something he couldn’t quite place. To be completely honest, he didn’t want to share her with the group, wanting to keep the night solely for himself.

"Actually don’t know much about her. She’s… We’ve only met once, but she left before I could even get her name."

Azriel leaned forward, his interest piqued. "And now you can’t stop thinking about her."

Rhys nodded slowly. "Yeah. It’s like she’s in my head, and I can’t shake her."

Mor smiled softly, her voice a gentle comfort as she placed one of her hands on top of his. "Sounds like she made quite an impression."

"Or," Cassian added, "you’ve finally met your match."

At that, Rhys could feel the unspoken pity that lingered among his friends. Each of them, in one way or another, had found someone significant to share their lives with. Family dinners had become increasingly awkward, with his mother not-so-subtly bringing up one of her friends' single daughters whenever she could.

Invitations from his friends always came with a plus-one option, a constant reminder that he was the odd one out, still navigating that part of his life. The weight of it all was beginning to press down on him, a silent burden he carried while trying to maintain the facade that he was perfectly fine on his own. 

Rhys laughed, but it was a hollow sound, lacking the usual humour. "Maybe. Or maybe I’m just chasing a ghost. Not everyone is destined to have a love story like yours, Cas"

Azriel’s gaze softened. "Sometimes the ones who leave us with questions are the ones who stay with us the longest."

Rhys looked around the table at his friends— rather his family—and felt a great sense of gratitude. Even if he couldn’t figure out the mystery woman, at least he had them.

With a deep breath, he set his glass down and tried to push the thoughts of her aside, at least for now. "Enough about me. Let’s just enjoy the night, yeah? Mor, you’ll be off soon, right?"

Mor nodded, raising a glass of water. "To enjoying the night."

The others followed suit, clinking their glasses and bottles of beer together in a silent agreement, a harmonious clink. But even as Rhys joined in, he knew the woman would linger in his thoughts, just out of reach, like a shadow in the back of his mind.

[feyreslover]

Melodies of You: Chapter 1

Synopsis:

Fresh from a toxic relationship, Feyre is enjoying her single life and steering clear of commitment—until a one-night stand turns into something far more unexpected.

Now, suddenly thrown into a jumble of her past, Feyre must wade through a whirlwind of emotions and secrets, navigating her path to healing with a certain dark haired man.

( loosely, loosely based on Hannah Bonam-Young's "Out on a Limb" )

Masterlist

As she fiddled with the fraying sleeves of her sweater, Feyre realised the doctor sitting across from her, clipboard in hand, was expectantly waiting for her attention. The doctor's eyes, framed by dark lashes, were warm but focused.

“Oh, sorry.” She felt her cheeks warm, a flush creeping up her neck. She forced herself to meet the doctor’s gaze, trying to shake off the numbness that settled over her.

The doctor, unbothered by Feyre’s unintentional ignoring, smiled kindly as her gaze droped to the clipboard, skimming over the information. The sharp, medicinal smell of antiseptic lingered, slightly burning the inside of Feyre’s nose as she inhaled deeply. Colourful information posters littered the walls, offering splashes of colour in the otherwise stark, sterile office.

Save for the afternoon light, the only source of warmth that filtered through a single, narrow window, casting long, restless shadows across the floor, the room felt quite constricting.

“Well,” the doctor finally said, bringing Feyre’s attention back. “I have the reason for your recent fainting spells and sickness… Congratulations, you’re pregnant.”

Pregnant.  Pregnant.

A quiet oh was all Feyre managed to utter, her mind reeling with the unexpected news. she could hear a beeping noise in the distance, the sound punctuating the sterile silence of the room. It took her a moment to realise it was coming from the doctor's computer, reminding her of the reality she’s now faced.

The doctor continued to speak, her voice a murmur in the background as Feyre’s thoughts race. The beeping grew louder in her mind, mingling with the doctor's words, creating a dissonant symphony that heightened her anxiety.

***

As Feyre subconsciously traced the rim of her drink, her fingers leaving faint trails on the glass, she propped one arm onto the wooden bar, deeply contemplating her situation. She hadn’t noticed the man slipping onto the stool next to her, his presence a sudden, subtle warmth at her side.

A deep, sensual voice broke through Feyre’s reverie. “You seemed quite bored.”

Looking up from the dark speck of wood she had been staring at, Feyre made eye contact with the man, immediately taken by surprise by his face—his brown skin glowing under the dim bar lights, dark, almost purple eyes that seemed to pierce right through her, and a slight, playful curve to the right side of his mouth as he gazed down at her.

“I’m not bored,” Feyre had replied after a beat, her voice barely above a whisper. “I’m just—”

She paused, somehow unable to find the words.

“Enjoying your own company?” he had supplied smoothly, after she hadn’t answered.

“Something like that.”

The bartender finally walked over to them, the clinking of glasses and murmur of conversations forming a soft backdrop. The stranger next to her ordered a whisky, his voice a low rumble, and then turned to Feyre, a questioning expression adorning his face.

Deciding not to waste a free drink, Feyre told the bartender, “I’ll have a—”

***

Feyre  quickly snapped out of her stupor, realizing that the doctor continued to speak, providing her with different options as she noted that Feyre’s expression had been one of shock, bordering on panic.

“Feyre, you’re still early. Why don’t you take the week to think about it, and we can book another appointment, okay?”

“Sure,” Feyre muttered, her voice distant.

Leaving the doctor's office, she wrapped her coat and scarf around her frame more securely, her breath forming small clouds in the frosty air. People walked past her, each engaged in their own lives, blissfully unaware of the storm brewing inside her. Nobody knew that she, Feyre Archeron, was pregnant.

The news still felt surreal as she reached the front steps of her apartment complex. Keys in hand, she trudged up the interior stairs, her feet heavy with the weight of her thoughts. Noting the peeling paint, Feyre was struck by the realisation that if she were to have a baby, this cramped, shabby apartment wouldn’t suffice.

As Feyre confronted the cold, drab exterior of her apartment, she barely registered herself falling to her knees. Her knees hit the carpeted floor with a dull thud, and Feyre was unable to stop the tears that silently started to run down her cold-bitten cheeks.

Head in her hands, Feyre sobbed. She sobbed for herself, for the baby growing inside of her.

She cried for the child she once was, her youthful dreams of the future now seeming so far away.

This had not been where she wanted to be—knocked up after a spontaneous one-night stand, where she left before she had gotten the handsome stranger’s name.

***

As his warm hand slowly made its way up her exposed hips, Feyre’s head tipped back, her eyes closed, relishing in the touch. His fingers traced delicate patterns on her skin, sending shivers down her spine.

A deep sound of enjoyment had escaped his throat as their contact become more intense. Lying down, Feyre felt vulnerable.

Yet she was exhilarated, fully exposed to him.

***

Snap out of it! she told herself. Her sobs subsided into quiet whimpers as she sat on the floor, the weight of her reality pressing down on her. She'd known she had to make a decision, but for now, she allowed herself to cry. 

Using her wooden desk for support, Feyre lifted herself off the floor. Her knees, aching from the kneeling, cracked at the movement.

The beeping noise from the doctor’s office still echoed in her mind, blending with the ambient sounds of her apartment—the distant hum of traffic, the faint murmur of her neighbors through the thin walls, and the occasional creak of the building settling. These familiar sounds were a stark reminder that life went on, even if she felt like hers was stagnant. 

Feyre took a deep breath, trying to steady herself. She had known she couldn’t stay in this limbo forever. She needed to make a plan, to grasp onto some form of control.

The fear of the unknown was been paralyzing, and she felt utterly alone. It was an ugly sort of pain, twisted with her past, entangled with old wounds and regrets.

The memories of her past, riddled with the weight of her failures and disappointments, had surfaced, adding to her current turmoil. The walls of her apartment seemed to close in on her, the peeling paint and dim lighting casting shadows that danced like spectres of her regrets.

The hum of the refrigerator and the distant sound of traffic outside only emphasised the oppressive silence, each noise a stark reminder of the solitude she felt.

Her bed, a sanctuary amidst the chaos, proved to be a comfort as Feyre slid herself under the covers. The familiar scent of her sheets, a mix of lavender and detergent, providing a small measure of solace. She decided that the rest of the day should be spent there, cocooned in the relative safety of her blankets. The soft fabric seeming to absorb her anguish, offering a temporary reprieve from her racing thoughts.

She was glad that her boss had pushed her to take the day off after her appointment, being the one who found her unconscious on the floor. The memory of her boss's concerned face and gentle insistence echoed in her mind, a small beacon of kindness.

Ever so slowly, Feyre reached under the covers and placed a hand on her flat stomach, tracing delicate swirls on it. The room was bathed in the soft glow of the late afternoon sun, filtering through the curtains and casting a warm, golden hue. The shadows of the leaves outside danced on the walls, creating a serene, almost hypnotic pattern.

In that moment, Feyre made a promise. She wasn’t sure if it was to herself or the baby, but she decided that she would make the right decision—the right decision for both of them.

The enormity of the commitment settled over her like a heavy blanket, but there was a newfound resolve in her heart. She would face whatever came next with determination and strength.

As she wiped the last of her tears away, Feyre felt a small spark of determination ignite within her.

[feyreslover]

Me ༉‧₊˚.

My Ao3:

Masterlist:

Melodies of You- Multi chapter

Synopsis:

Fresh from a toxic relationship, Feyre is enjoying her single life and steering clear of commitment—until a one-night stand turns into something far more unexpected.

Now, suddenly thrown into a jumble of her past, Feyre must wade through a whirlwind of emotions and secrets, navigating her path to healing with a certain dark haired man.

( loosely, loosely based on Hannah Bonam-Young's "Out on a Limb" )

Rating: M

Warning: (past) toxic relationships, Controlling figures, Past trauma.

Ship: Feysand

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Sunlight- One shot

Synopsis:

A slice of life fic set in the early morning, as Feyre reflects on her love for her husband and children.

Rating: G

Pure fluff!

Sunlight

Ours- One shot

Summary:

Feyre and Rhys take a step in their relationship.   A first home One-shot !!

Rating: G

Ours