Feyre Eldathson

Feyre’s hand moved on instinct.

To smooth the furrow in his brow.

To trace the edge of his jaw.

To offer something soft in the face of so much hurt.

But she didn’t reach him.

Her hand stopped short, fingers curling in midair before she let them fall back to her side. Like touching him would make it worse—for her, for him, for everything they never said out loud.

The guilt twisted in her gut before she could stop it.

Of course you reached for him. Of course you did.

James would call it selfish. Emotional bleeding. Needy.

She hadn’t even realized how much that voice—the one that wasn’t hers—had made itself at home in her head. All sharp edges dressed up like protection.

She swallowed hard.

She hadn’t cried when James snapped at her. Not when he called her exhausting. Not when he gripped her arm hard enough to bruise and told her she should be grateful he still gave a damn.

She hadn’t cried when she curled up in the corner of his apartment afterward, willing herself smaller, quieter, less.

But this?

This was the ache that threatened to break her open.

Theo’s voice. Theo’s face. The furrow in his brow that meant he saw her. That he cared— maybe in the wrong way—but still.

It would be easier if he didn’t.

If he hadn’t come looking.

If he hadn’t asked.

“Are you happy?”

She asked, voice nearly above a whisper.

“Were we ever really happy? . . . Did you ever care to hear my real answer before?”

God. She wanted to scream. Wanted to shake him by the collar and say Where were you? When it mattered? When she needed him? When she was folding in on herself and calling it self-growth?

But she didn’t scream.

Instead, she breathed. Shallow. Unsteady.

And tried not to cry in the middle of the sidewalk like a girl with a broken heart and no more excuses left.

“What does happy even look like?”

Was it James leaving her sunflower stems in a cracked vase? Or the way he flinched when she got too animated about frogs or stars or the way light looked when it passed through leaves?

Was it someone who stayed but never really saw her?

Someone who showed up but never chose her?

Was it this?

This moment—standing here in front of the boy she’d loved since before she knew what love even was—trying to convince herself that what she had now was enough?

Her chest burned. Her hands trembled. And still, she said nothing of what she was thinking.

Instead, she lifted her eyes to his, and with all the gentleness she could muster—voice steady only because it had to be—she said:

“Maybe I don’t know what happy really is… Maybe I’m finally trying to learn what that actually looks like.”

That was all she could give him.

All the truth she could afford without collapsing.

And even that nearly undid her.

He knew he'd set this in motion, that it was his actions that sent Feyre running into James's arms in the first place, but it was possible the ghost of him was still coming between them. He wasn't sure how to feel about that, but horrible as it made him, he knew he didn't entirely hate it. Not as much as he should, anyway. His logical mind wanted her to be able to move on. His selfish heart wanted her for himself, always had. How utterly unfair of him to want to keep her hanging on. He would never act on it, but the feelings didn't lie.

"I missed you too." He tucked his face in the crook of her shoulder, breathing in the familiar scent of her. She'd always been home to him. It was just unfortunate that home was such a difficult concept for Theo, the thing that he'd always been running from.

"And I'm sorry. I never wanted that for you." His heart ached with the words. If he was still doing this to her, if she was still holding on, if she still always missed him, then what was the point of trying to hold her at a distance? He'd wanted to protect her from himself, to keep her from having a partner who would always keep her waiting the way his father had always kept his mother on the line, hopeful and tied down but never together, never happy. If she still missed him, then he hadn't protected her from anything.

It was an effort to pull himself from the mire of those thoughts. They'd plagued him ever since that night, and though it went back a lot further than that, they somehow seemed more potent now. The possibility of them had never been so distinct or so painful, its edges sharp enough to cut. He hadn't entirely been able to escape it even when he was gone, and that was almost never the case for Theo. There had always been a clear line between his personal life and his work. He wasn't sure where any of the lines were anymore.

The arms around her still felt like home.

Theo’s breath still puffed warm against her neck, still made her eyes burn, still lulled her toward the edge of a truth she wasn’t ready to say out loud. That maybe she didn’t feel safest with the man who claimed to love her. That maybe safety had always worn the shape of the boy who just wrapped her in his arms like she mattered. tears finally beginning to spill free as she starts to crumble bit by bit. The soft tremble that had rumbled through her body melted into a soft shiver as his breath continued to puff against her neck, the old comfort of his closeness threatening to

submerge her in that old warm fuzz that used to be part of every moment they shared.

"He —he's been through a lot. His father. His mother leaving. The war. The boy. . . His whole platoon? He struggles with things like the rest of us do." She took a long shaking breath as sneaking guilt began to build. The more she spoke of James' own traumas the more her mind began to realize her current betrayal of him. Not so much due to her proximity to Theo. Sure there was something to be said there. But her betrayal came in a more sister shape. It was there in the way she'd ached for Theos comfort. The way her body felt so at home wrapped with his arms. The way she knew she if Theo asked her to leave with him right now she couldn't trust herself to say no.

But James’s voice cut through her like a snapped bow string.

The tension that coiled through her spine was immediate, a jarring snap back into her body. Her arms fell from Theo like she’d been burned. Like they’d both been caught doing something worse than it was; even if the damage had already been done the moment she let herself want to stay.

She turned, already wincing.

“James?” she said, breath shaky, chest tight.

The way he stood there made her stomach churn. His jaw was clenched, eyes like winter molasses —hazel, unblinking, full of something darker than just hurt. There was anger there. Betrayal. Not confusion. Not sadness.

Just quiet, coiled fury.

Her mouth opened, then shut again.

“This isn’t—” she began, her voice weak, stumbling.

“What it looks like?” James finished, his tone scathing, as though her words had only confirmed the worst of what he feared. “Is that seriously what you’re going with?”

Feyre’s hands trembled at her sides. She didn’t reach for anyone this time. Not James. Not Theo.

Her heart beat hard against her ribs like it wanted to escape the moment entirely. She didn’t blame it.

Because James had that look again,the one he wore when he’d had too much to drink, when his voice got sharp and his patience thinned out like water over stone. And Theo… Theo was still standing there, silent behind her, probably bracing for impact. He wouldn’t flinch. But she could feel his gaze on her back. Steady. Familiar. Dangerous.

“James,” she tried again, softer. “This isn’t— I wasn’t—”

She bit her tongue.

She couldn’t say it wasn’t emotional. Couldn’t pretend she hadn’t melted into Theo like muscle memory. Couldn’t deny that some part of her had wanted to.

Her eyes flicked to his, guilt starting to drown out the panic.

“He’s my friend,” she whispered. “That’s all it was. I just needed a second. I needed someone who. . .knew me. Who knew how to help me breathe again.”

It wasn’t a lie. But it wasn’t the whole truth either. And her silence after the words said as much.

James’s face didn’t move.

Except for the twitch in his jaw.

His silence was louder than a scream.

Feyre’s hand moved on instinct.

To smooth the furrow in his brow.

To trace the edge of his jaw.

To offer something soft in the face of so much hurt.

But she didn’t reach him.

Her hand stopped short, fingers curling in midair before she let them fall back to her side. Like touching him would make it worse—for her, for him, for everything they never said out loud.

The guilt twisted in her gut before she could stop it.

Of course you reached for him. Of course you did.

James would call it selfish. Emotional bleeding. Needy.

She hadn’t even realized how much that voice—the one that wasn’t hers—had made itself at home in her head. All sharp edges dressed up like protection.

She swallowed hard.

She hadn’t cried when James snapped at her. Not when he called her exhausting. Not when he gripped her arm hard enough to bruise and told her she should be grateful he still gave a damn.

She hadn’t cried when she curled up in the corner of his apartment afterward, willing herself smaller, quieter, less.

But this?

This was the ache that threatened to break her open.

Theo’s voice. Theo’s face. The furrow in his brow that meant he saw her. That he cared— maybe in the wrong way—but still.

It would be easier if he didn’t.

If he hadn’t come looking.

If he hadn’t asked.

“Are you happy?”

She asked, voice nearly above a whisper.

“Were we ever really happy? . . . Did you ever care to hear my real answer before?”

God. She wanted to scream. Wanted to shake him by the collar and say Where were you? When it mattered? When she needed him? When she was folding in on herself and calling it self-growth?

But she didn’t scream.

Instead, she breathed. Shallow. Unsteady.

And tried not to cry in the middle of the sidewalk like a girl with a broken heart and no more excuses left.

“What does happy even look like?”

Was it James leaving her sunflower stems in a cracked vase? Or the way he flinched when she got too animated about frogs or stars or the way light looked when it passed through leaves?

Was it someone who stayed but never really saw her?

Someone who showed up but never chose her?

Was it this?

This moment—standing here in front of the boy she’d loved since before she knew what love even was—trying to convince herself that what she had now was enough?

Her chest burned. Her hands trembled. And still, she said nothing of what she was thinking.

Instead, she lifted her eyes to his, and with all the gentleness she could muster—voice steady only because it had to be—she said:

“Maybe I don’t know what happy really is… Maybe I’m finally trying to learn what that actually looks like.”

That was all she could give him.

All the truth she could afford without collapsing.

And even that nearly undid her.

He knew he'd set this in motion, that it was his actions that sent Feyre running into James's arms in the first place, but it was possible the ghost of him was still coming between them. He wasn't sure how to feel about that, but horrible as it made him, he knew he didn't entirely hate it. Not as much as he should, anyway. His logical mind wanted her to be able to move on. His selfish heart wanted her for himself, always had. How utterly unfair of him to want to keep her hanging on. He would never act on it, but the feelings didn't lie.

"I missed you too." He tucked his face in the crook of her shoulder, breathing in the familiar scent of her. She'd always been home to him. It was just unfortunate that home was such a difficult concept for Theo, the thing that he'd always been running from.

"And I'm sorry. I never wanted that for you." His heart ached with the words. If he was still doing this to her, if she was still holding on, if she still always missed him, then what was the point of trying to hold her at a distance? He'd wanted to protect her from himself, to keep her from having a partner who would always keep her waiting the way his father had always kept his mother on the line, hopeful and tied down but never together, never happy. If she still missed him, then he hadn't protected her from anything.

It was an effort to pull himself from the mire of those thoughts. They'd plagued him ever since that night, and though it went back a lot further than that, they somehow seemed more potent now. The possibility of them had never been so distinct or so painful, its edges sharp enough to cut. He hadn't entirely been able to escape it even when he was gone, and that was almost never the case for Theo. There had always been a clear line between his personal life and his work. He wasn't sure where any of the lines were anymore.

She didn’t move, not even a little. Not when her chest started to tremble. Not when her grip on his shirt tightened.

“I know this isn’t fair,” she whispered, voice raw and too close to breaking. “Wanting to be this close. Wanting you. You didn’t ask for this, Theo. You left. You did the right thing for you. And I still…”

She didn’t finish the thought. Couldn’t.

“He might be. . . Troubled but he cares. He shows up. He tries. And I just keep—” Her throat closed for a moment, the rest almost too painful to say. “I keep disappointing him.”

She let out a shaky breath, forehead still pressed to his, eyes closed like maybe she could pretend for just a moment that none of it was real.

“He gets so angry, Theo.” The words came softer now, but harder, too. Heavier. “He gets angry when I forget something. When I zone out in the middle of a conversation. When I freeze up and don’t know what to say. When I make plans and can’t follow through. When I cry.”

Her jaw tightened. She swallowed hard.

“And the worst part is—I understand why he’s angry. I do.” Her voice cracked on the last word. “It makes sense. Because I’d be angry too, if I was with someone like me.”

She finally opened her eyes, just enough to look at him. There was no anger there. Just guilt. Just grief.

“I don’t mean to make him feel like I’m not trying. I am trying. Every day. I try so damn hard to be the version of me that doesn’t screw everything up. The one who’s easier to love. But no matter how hard I try, I just keep… failing him.”

Her thumb brushed along the line of his jaw- tentative, like she wasn’t sure she deserved even that.

“He tells me I’m too sensitive, or too quiet, or not present enough, and he’s not wrong. I can’t even argue with him anymore. I just… take it. Because I know I’m not easy to love. I know I’m messy. And forgetful. And I shut down all the time. And he’s just tired.”

A breath. Fragile. Full of weight.

“I think I’ve made him tired of me.”

Her hand slid from his jaw to rest flat against his chest, needing the steady rhythm there. Needing him.

“And what does it say about me that I miss you this much? That being with you-near you-still feels like the only time I can breathe like a real person.”

She closed her eyes again, her lips brushing the edge of a sigh.

“I don’t know how to be good to him. Not in the way he needs. And he gets angry because he needs more from me and I don’t know how to give it.”

She was unraveling, slowly, silently; Held together by his touch.

“I just… I don’t want to lose you again, Theo. I know it’s selfish, but—” her voice dropped to a whisper, “—I’m so tired of trying to be enough and still watching people give up on me or running from me.”

She didn’t pull back. Couldn’t.

Feyre’s hand moved on instinct.

To smooth the furrow in his brow.

To trace the edge of his jaw.

To offer something soft in the face of so much hurt.

But she didn’t reach him.

Her hand stopped short, fingers curling in midair before she let them fall back to her side. Like touching him would make it worse—for her, for him, for everything they never said out loud.

The guilt twisted in her gut before she could stop it.

Of course you reached for him. Of course you did.

James would call it selfish. Emotional bleeding. Needy.

She hadn’t even realized how much that voice—the one that wasn’t hers—had made itself at home in her head. All sharp edges dressed up like protection.

She swallowed hard.

She hadn’t cried when James snapped at her. Not when he called her exhausting. Not when he gripped her arm hard enough to bruise and told her she should be grateful he still gave a damn.

She hadn’t cried when she curled up in the corner of his apartment afterward, willing herself smaller, quieter, less.

But this?

This was the ache that threatened to break her open.

Theo’s voice. Theo’s face. The furrow in his brow that meant he saw her. That he cared— maybe in the wrong way—but still.

It would be easier if he didn’t.

If he hadn’t come looking.

If he hadn’t asked.

“Are you happy?”

She asked, voice nearly above a whisper.

“Were we ever really happy? . . . Did you ever care to hear my real answer before?”

God. She wanted to scream. Wanted to shake him by the collar and say Where were you? When it mattered? When she needed him? When she was folding in on herself and calling it self-growth?

But she didn’t scream.

Instead, she breathed. Shallow. Unsteady.

And tried not to cry in the middle of the sidewalk like a girl with a broken heart and no more excuses left.

“What does happy even look like?”

Was it James leaving her sunflower stems in a cracked vase? Or the way he flinched when she got too animated about frogs or stars or the way light looked when it passed through leaves?

Was it someone who stayed but never really saw her?

Someone who showed up but never chose her?

Was it this?

This moment—standing here in front of the boy she’d loved since before she knew what love even was—trying to convince herself that what she had now was enough?

Her chest burned. Her hands trembled. And still, she said nothing of what she was thinking.

Instead, she lifted her eyes to his, and with all the gentleness she could muster—voice steady only because it had to be—she said:

“Maybe I don’t know what happy really is… Maybe I’m finally trying to learn what that actually looks like.”

That was all she could give him.

All the truth she could afford without collapsing.

And even that nearly undid her.

Feyre stood so still it was like she was carved from salt and shadow.

Her fingers twitched at the sound of his voice saying her name like that—gentle, steady, true. And damn him. Damn him, because he meant it. Because she knew he meant it. And the thing about Theo Wolfram was, he didn’t say things like that unless he did. He didn’t have to say things like that unless he meant them.

And he was saying it now.

Not years ago when the ache first started. Not when James told her she was being dramatic again for crying after the fight. Not when she’d stared at her reflection trying to figure out if this version of herself—the one who flinched, who smiled too wide, who talked with soft edges around sharp feelings—was the better one she was supposed to be building.

Now.

And gods help her, it cracked something in her chest open wide enough that even James’s voice couldn’t fill the silence that followed.

You’re not a ghost.

She hadn’t realized how much of her had started believing she was.

You’re not nothing.

Then why did she feel like less than air most days? Like a shadow that trailed behind men who never really chose her in the first place?

You’re my best friend.

Her lip trembled.

It wasn’t fair. The way he saw her. Still. Even now. When she wasn’t sure she even liked what was left.

When he reached for her hands, she didn’t move away.

She let him take them.

And it hurt, in the sweetest, most unforgiving way possible. Because his hands were warm, and they fit around hers like they belonged there. Like they remembered.

He called her *gorgeous*.

He didn’t mean her hair. Or her skin. Or the way she looked in the sunlight when she wasn’t trying so hard to be small. He meant her. Whatever was left of the girl who once threw her arms around him for fun and laughed so hard she snorted. The girl who lit up for frogs and bad puns and the smell of thunderstorms.

She wasn’t gone. Just buried.

Maybe he could still see her.

Her throat burned as she looked down at their hands. At the way he was holding her like she wasn’t a mess of contradictions. Like she wasn’t some half-healed wreck of a person pretending she had her shit together.

She didn’t say thank you.

Didn’t say sorry either.

Instead, her voice came low and broken at the edges.

“I don’t know how to fix it, Theo.”

Her thumb brushed against his knuckle before she could stop it.

“But you always made it easier to breathe.”

She didn’t let go. Couldn’t.

“I missed you. . . I always miss you. I don’t think I’ll ever stop missing you.”

Not yet.

@newtonskeeper

That was such a typically Feyre thing to say that Theo needed a moment to fight down the blend of exasperated fondness and frustration bordering on outright anger. He wasn't good at serious conversations. He should have sent Aven for this, except Aven had already tried to speak to her about it. Though she hadn't been specific, he gathered it hadn't gone well, or at least that it hadn't changed anything. It must have been dire indeed if his twin was asking him to fix a problem. Theo was a lot better at creating them.

Guilt writhed inside him, black and viscous, for having a hand in creating this one. When he'd pushed Feyre away, he'd convinced himself it was so that she could be happy, so that she could find someone better. Someone who wouldn't break her heart by coming onto her and then taking another girl home, someone who didn't leave her for weeks or months at a time and come back like the slate was clean and he hadn't left a snarl of feelings and problems in his wake. He had never once imagined she would find someone worse.

And it was, indeed, dire if even Theo could see it now. He'd always been able to see right through Feyre, and though he'd been overseas for several months while all this built up at home, he could tell at first glance that she wasn't happy. It had just taken a week or so for him to piece together why. One problematic male lead to another, James was a red flag. James was a basket full of red flags. If Theo had been here, if he'd been paying better attention, if he hadn't broken her heart so thoroughly, maybe this never would have happened. Maybe she wouldn't have felt compelled to replace him with a more dangerous model.

He'd been through this with Aven before, but that had been… rather simpler to untangle. Theo hadn't had to think about that one. He'd taken one look at the flinching, frightened look in her eyes and the bruises on her arms, knocked the shit out of her ex-fiancé, and brought her home. That was different though. For one thing, James would probably fucking murder him in a fight unless he had Emmett standing beside him (a possibility he had not ruled out). For another, Aven had wanted to leave. He wasn't entirely sure that Feyre did, and that hurt more than expected. She didn't know how special she was, how loved, how deserving of something better. Of course she didn't. Because Theo had done everything he could to crush that between them before it ever had a chance.

After several slow breaths, he wrangled his thoughts and emotions back into submission, reaching to gently tug at a long, dark lock of her hair. "This isn't about my happiness, doll. It's about yours. And despite the bullshit front you're putting off for everyone, I know you're not happy. You think I can't tell?"

Not with words.

Just a soft little huff of air that might’ve been a laugh, except it was too sharp at the edges. She waved him off—gentle, but firm—as his fingers tugged at her hair again.

“No—no. It’s nothing like that.” she said, chuckling as she pulled back just slightly, her gaze fixed on some cracked point in her drywall instead of him.

“I’m just—” her voice fluttered, stalled, then picked up again like she’d rehearsed it in the mirror. “I’m going through my own things. Trying to be a better version of myself.”

Better. Not broken. Not hurting. Not waiting for a man who didn’t come back in time to stop this from happening.

“I guess I’m just bad at this” she added with a small, embarrassed shrug. “I’ve never really dated. So poor James has to deal with all of my… inexperience.”

She laughed again, but it didn’t reach her eyes.

“I’m happy. I am. I guess I’m just frustrated with myself, is all.”

But even as she said it, her throat burned.

Because she remembered exactly how it started. How she’d stumbled into Emmett’s bar that night like someone trying to outrun her own shadow. She hadn’t expected to see anyone she knew. She hadn’t expected him.

James.

He’d looked about as wrecked as she felt nursing a whiskey in the corner booth, sleeves rolled up, knuckles bruised, eyes distant. They weren’t friends, not really, but they’d seen each other around the neighborhood enough to nod.

That night he didn’t just nod. He looked at her like she was the only thing that made sense.

He was gentle at first. Tender, even. They’d both been drinking. Talking. Swapping stories that tasted like loss. He told her about his last deployment, about the girl he left behind, how he came back changed—how he didn’t know how to stop being a ghost.

She’d laughed quietly at that, said something half-joking, half-serious about how she’d always felt like a ghost herself.

Always just around, haunting the background of someone else’s story.

Especially Theo’s.

She had been the poltergeist in the quiet corners of his life the unspoken space in his routines. A shadow brushing by when he needed a soft moment. A comfort, a whisper, a thing never spoken aloud.

She had never been part of his real life. Never got to meet the girls he brought home. Never got to ask why he always left without warning. She only existed in the quiet.

So when James started texting. Calling. Asking her out, she said yes.

He was steady. Present. A little too gruff sometimes, a little too drunk too often. But he showed up. Brought her sunflowers. Cooked for her once. Told her she made him feel like he mattered again.

It was something.

Sure, he talked about his ex more than she liked. Sure, he’d get sharp when he drank too much. . . Eyes going flinty, words cutting just enough to sting. But she understood. He was working through something. And in his defense…

So was she.

Because every time James did something kind, something sweet—every time his lips brushed her temple or he made her laugh at dinner, when the moments grew sweet and tender she found herself wishing it was Theo.

That guilt started quietly.

Then it grew claws.

Guilt that she was unfaithful in thought if not in deed. Guilt that she was too broken to be enough for James. Guilt that if he lashed out, it was probably her fault for not being better.

So when his moods got darker when he snapped at her or called her childish, weird or selfish. . . she tried harder.

Tried to be calm.

Tried to be good.

Tried to deserve him.

She stayed. Even when he stopped apologizing. Even when he gripped her arm too hard and told her she was lucky he still had the patience to deal with her particularities. . . Her weird.

Even now, she said, “I’m happy.”

And maybe if she said it enough, she’d believe it.

She lifted her chin slightly, eyes flicking back toward Theo with a practiced, lopsided smile that didn’t quite cover the damage beneath it.

“You know me.” she added softly, trying to make it sound like a joke. “Little ghost girl. Still figuring it out.”

Pedido por Anónimo.