#aced it

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The Hollow Purple that Gojo shot at you gathered together and swirled around your force field before rebounding and hitting him square in the chest. Before the explosion, you could see his cerulean pupils dilate in fear and horror.

BOOM!

The sound was ear-popping, it made you become deaf for a second. The air was so thick with smoke and debris you barely could register what was happening to Gojo. Then a sound made your brain short-circuit.

Blood gushing.

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You coughed as the dust went down your throat. Shit, you thought, what’s going on there? As the smoke cleared, you could have a clear vision of what was happening to Gojo.

He was lying on the ground.

With half of his waist gone.

Gojo POV

I have never felt so much fucking pain in my life.

I have also never seen that damned technique before.

But right now, all I know is that I attacked myself. I lost half of my waist and is slowly dying. How the fuck did she get me in this state? I’m trying to use Reverse Cursed Technique to heal myself, but it’s not even close to working. I’m just lying there, seeing the gates of heaven open-

‘Are-are you okay?’

I snapped my eyes towards the looming shadow over me.

‘Shut up.’ I growled. ‘Here to finish me off is-’

‘No.’

‘What? That bitch almost fucking blasted me into oblivion and now she’s tryna become all caring and sweet?

‘C’mon, kill me. Don’t act like you care for me.’

‘I’m not acting.’ She muttered. ‘Hey, hold still, will ya? M’kay, Deck of Cards: Healing Heart.’

Her hand glowed a crimson color and she put it to my bleeding wound. I tried to dodge it but it was so painful I couldn’t.

‘Don’t—’

‘Shh, look.’ She murmured.

I tilted my head to take a glimpse of my wound. Except there was no wound anymore. What replaced it was fresh new skin, completely healed.

The girl that almost killed me saved my life.

What the actual fuck.

Your POV

Your mission was to fight and capture Gojo, not kill him. Although Nanami told you to injure him until he couldn’t attack, something in his eyes made you save him. What was it?

As you helped him to his feet, he threw a goofy, lopsided smile at you. ‘Wow, can’t believe you faked killing me. What, you like me or somethin’?’ He grinned. You rolled your eyes.

‘Don’t flatter yourself.’

‘Hmmm? Do you find this,’ he struck a pose, ‘distracting?’

‘Shush.’

Despite him being the most wanted sorcerer ever, you could barely hide the smile tugging at your lips.

‘Mmm, I’ll think about it. So, what’s your objective?’

‘Huh?’

‘Why’d you fight me?’

‘Oh, u-um,’ your cheeks turned bright red, ‘I’m supposed t-to capture you.’

‘Oh?’ He smirked. ‘That didn’t go well, did it?’

‘Ahaha, yeah…’ you laughed weakly.

‘Well, Sukiyaru, I’ll see you around.’

‘H-how d’you know my name?’

‘I can read minds.’ He winked, and teleported away.

This guy is on another level…

Chapter 1: in my defense, i have none

Feyre stared up at the equation that Dr. Carver had displayed on the projector, then back down at her notebook as she hurriedly scribbled in the given variables and started to simplify and solve it. She wouldn’t have been in such a rush if this was a homework problem, but she was in class with the most insufferable classmate she’d ever encountered. Just as she plugged the last number into her calculator, though, his hand shot up.

“The concentration would be 3.025 grams per liter.”

And, as always, he was right. The exact same digits flashed on her calculator, mocking her. To add insult to injury, he leaned out over his desk to look in her direction, shooting her a ridiculous wink when he caught her glare.

It was only the first week of the semester— too damn early to be getting this worked up over this stupid rivalry. A rivalry she hadn’t even meant to start in the first place, but… well, freshman year had made it kind of inevitable.

~

He had caught her eye in the first week of classes, because… well, how could anyone not notice him? Feyre passed him when she went to her seat at the front of the lecture hall for BIO 100, sliding into the seat that practically mirrored his position— not on purpose, just because it was generally where she preferred to sit: in the front row, to the very left end of the middle section of the room. 

It felt almost traitorous to notice him, considering Feyre was with Tamlin, but it wasn’t unfaithful to acknowledge that this man was incredibly attractive. That was just a neutral observation. (She thought he might be the most beautiful person she’d ever seen, entirely objectively, of course.) His dark, short hair always sat in carefully crafted waves, contrasting prettily with the bronze of his skin. It was clear that he was fit, the strong lines of his biceps and broad span of his shoulders visible even through his shirts. After a few weeks, Feyre noticed that he almost exclusively wore black, neatly-pressed clothes, only adding to his intimidating aura. 

Maybe she should have been intimidated by him, with his dark look and the intense slant that his mouth seemed to be near-permanently fixed in. If not that, she might have been warned off by the dark, abstract lines of the tattoos that wound their way from his forearms to… well, she wasn’t sure how far they extended, but they crept up to the base of his neck, at least. Against all common sense, Feyre wasn’t afraid of him. His eyes, when she caught glimpses of them as she passed him before class, were an unnaturally deep blue, and they shone with an emotion that was far too complex to unpack in a passing moment. Plus, since he was always there before her, she saw his neatly organized supplies, the way they always sat perfectly arranged on the desk in front of him. A single-subject notebook, college-ruled, with the class code, date, and lecture title penned in elegant, swirling handwriting written across the top. A small zip-case of writing utensils containing a fancy mechanical pencil, an art-grade eraser, two different kinds of pens in each of four colors, and matching highlighters. A graphing calculator. His water bottle.

More than pleased, until her eyes properly registered the name two lines above hers. ‘Rhysand Knight — 96’.

In the grand scheme of things, it wasn’t a big deal, but it irked Feyre.

“It’s just annoying!” she’d griped to Lucien at lunch after their introductory psych class one day. “Not only is he perfectly organized with neat and fucking aesthetic notes, he goes and gets a better grade than me, too!”

“Fey, aren’t you blowing this… maybe just the slightest bit out of proportion?” 

“I know it’s just two points, but it’s annoying.”

“So you’ve said.” Lucien was clearly trying not to laugh at her continued insistence that this was a personal slight. She knew it wasn’t, but it felt like one. After growing up with Nesta and Elain, who had been just a little more put-together, just a little bit better, made Feyre feel inadequate.

“Yeah, yeah, it’s my upbringing talking, I’m aware,” she sighed, rolling her eyes as Lucien nudged her shoulder playfully. “But I’m gonna do better than him next time, so it won’t even matter.”

Their names were always within a few lines of each other, within a few points of each other, on all of the following BIO 100 exams. Whenever hers was closer to the top of the page, Feyre felt an irrational surge of pride— followed by a little sting of guilt, for wanting to gloat about getting a marginally better grade than someone she didn’t even know.

But it continued to happen. And when she walked into the lecture hall for BIO 200 to see Rhysand already sitting in the front row, she couldn’t help but groan aloud. Second semester, it appeared, would not be giving her a reprieve. His eyes had shot to her when she groaned, and when she met his gaze, he had the audacity to smirk at her.

She scored higher than him on the first exam of the new semester, and when she took her seat the next class with a grin that was verging on supercilious, he’d fixed those inexplicably enticing deep blue eyes on her with a glare. Even though she didn’t know him, not really, Feyre could tell that there wasn’t any malice in the expression. Instead, his glare had been playful, as if he thought this was all a cute little game, rather than a set of numbers that would determine the course of the rest of her life.

He got the higher score on that final, though, and fixed her with an impish, irreverent smirk, before walking out of the lecture hall. Feyre wrinkled her nose. How could he annoy her so much despite never having spoken to her?

~

Feyre seethed silently, managing to calm down as the class plodded on. She managed to get her hand in the air first about half the time, whether that was to solve another ridiculous practice quantitative analysis problem (this was supposed to be biochemistry, not general chemistry, but it’s a necessary review, apparently) or to answer a multiple choice question about amino acid names. No one else seemed to even try, content to let Feyre and Rhysand answer every single question that Dr. Carver posed to the room.

Not that she minded. It made her look that much more engaged, making up for her lackluster note-taking skills that left her doodling figures in the margins of her notebooks more often than not. 

She was slow in packing up her things, knowing Tamlin wouldn’t be available for lunch for another twenty minutes, and thus got to witness Rhysand being an annoying suck-up.

Or, that was what she assumed was happening. The conversation, despite taking place just a few feet in front of her, was hushed, and she could only pick up a few words here and there like ‘research’ and ‘hospital’ and ‘opportunity’. Between that, and Rhysand’s general attitude, she felt justified in her assumption, and didn’t bother schooling whatever disdainful expression was written across her face when he turned back around to walk out of the room. 

He arched a dark eyebrow at her. “Something wrong, Feyre darling?”

“Drop the pet name,” she scoffed. “You barely know me.”

“You looked… bothered.”

“Yes, by your presence,” Feyre snapped, zipping her backpack shut with more force than necessary. That had been a little too much ire for someone she’d barely spoken to, though, and she had an apology poised on her lips.

There was no chance for her to voice that apology, though, when instead of getting upset, Rhysand had instead laughed. If she didn’t know better, she’d think he was delighted by her abrasive attitude. “Ah, of course. See you Friday, darling.”

Her groan was louder than necessary, and Dr. Carver looked her way with a curious expression. “It’s fine, we just— it’s fine.”

“Whatever you say, Ms. Archeron.” The professor eyed her for a moment longer as Feyre zipped up her backpack and stood from her seat. “Whatever it is you two have going on, I appreciate your participation. Though, perhaps you and Rhysand could stand to let any other students answer every so often? They should be participating, too, not sitting back and watching the tennis match that is you and him fighting to raise your hands first.”

“Right,” she mumbled, flushing under the scrutinous attention, even though Dr. Carver didn’t seem mad. In fact, he seemed rather amused by the whole thing. “Sorry.”

“Ah, no need for that,” he waved her off. “Watching you two squabble by answering my questions is far better than staring down a lecture hall full of dead-eyed, half-asleep students.”

“Oh. Okay.” This was getting weird, so Feyre started toward the doors with an awkward wave. “Well, I’ll see you on Friday, Dr. Carver.”

Dr. Carver bid her goodbye, and Feyre finally escaped the near-stifling air of the lecture hall. It was early September, and the heat of summer hadn’t yet receded from Velaris. Still a good ten minutes away from being able to see Tamlin, she took her time meandering through campus. The leaves on the trees hadn’t quite started to turn, though she spotted flecks of yellow here and there, complementing the warm midday sunlight. When the student union came into view, an impressive structure carved of dark stone and wrought iron, she had to fight the urge to stop and take in the view, trying to memorize the angle for a painting.

The dark granite facade sparkled in the sun, contrasting with the vibrant green grass and multicolored flowering shrubs that surrounded the walls. It would have made for a nice subject for her to practice with shadows and shading, she thought. Unfortunately, though, majoring in the sciences left her little time for creative endeavors. Add to that her minor in psychology that barely shared any class requirements with her molecular biology major, and that left Feyre approximately no free time.

Not if she wanted to ace all of her classes and maintain her meticulous GPA for medical school.

She shook her head with an amused huff and started up the steps into the union. Lucien was already waiting for her at their usual table in a relatively quiet, sunny corner. 

He waved her over with a smile. “Feyre Archeron, as I live and breathe! It’s been too long.”

“You saw me this morning, Luce,” she snorted, dropping her bag carelessly onto the floor as she flopped into the chair across from him. “I think you just don’t like not being able to use all the insults you come up with as soon as they pop into your brain.”

“How am I supposed to survive holding on to so many clever comebacks, Fey?”

Feyre shrugged. “Not my problem.”

“Yeah, yeah, you’re so empathetic to my plights,” he deadpanned. “When’s Tamlin supposed to join us?”

Tamlin. Her boyfriend of almost a year and a half. They’d met at a summer freshman orientation event that he had been facilitating. Feyre knew that he wasn’t the kind of guy who noticed girls like her— he was dressed in simple, but clearly expensive, clothing, his long, blonde hair was perfectly maintained, and he carried himself with an air of refinement that most of the other buffoons at orientation lacked. But somehow, she and her paint-stained leggings and messy bun had attracted his attention. And his affection. 

That’s how she’d met Lucien, too. 

She almost snorts, recalling how their odd trio had begun. Feyre had wanted nothing to do with Tamlin, at first. Sure, he was pretty, but he was a jock, at Velaris University on a lacrosse scholarship. Plus the best compliment he’d had to offer was that her hair looked clean. She’d hit it off with Lucien much faster, bonding with him over their verbal sparring matches, trading snark and insults like it was second nature. So, by befriending Lucien, she’d befriended Tamlin by association, and eventually she’d learned that he was a reasonable guy under the rich jock exterior.

He’d asked her about her interest in art, her desire to go to medical school. And then he’d asked her out. She couldn’t find much reason to say no, not after the solid month that Lucien had spent encouraging her to get to know Tamlin. He was nice, he was attractive, and he wanted her. Isn’t that what every girl looked for in a boyfriend?

After spending over a year together, she could say she definitely loved him. She’d even moved into an apartment with him and Lucien over the summer, one that Tamlin covered the entirety of the rent on, so she didn’t have to stress about finding a job that paid enough to live. Instead, she’d started looking at on-campus positions that would look good on her med school applications.

Plus, living with him meant she got to see him more often, and she didn’t have to worry about walking back to her own dorm in the dark if they’d spent a little too long rolling around in the sheets late in the evening.

“His class ends in…” she checked her phone. “Five minutes. So he’ll be here in ten or so?”

“He’ll want us to wait for him to grab lunch,” Lucien sighed, resting his chin in his hands, elbows propped up on the table. “I’m fucking starving, Feyre!”

She snorted. “Poor little Lucien, he’s going to waste away if he has to wait ten more measly minutes to get his chicken nuggets.”

“Exactly! I’ll be an emaciated corpse by the time Tamlin arrives.”

“Melodramatic bastard. Is there a reason you’re not majoring in the theatre?”

Lucien flashed her a vulpine grin. “Because I much prefer bothering you with my melodrama.” He winked, probably just to be annoying about it, and leaned back in his seat.

They bickered back and forth about anything and nothing until Tamlin’s broad form appeared at the end of the table. He was already wearing an annoyed expression. That was never a good sign. Feyre braced herself for a fight, even as she slipped out of her seat, leaned up on her toes, and kissed him hello.

His hands settled on her waist, gripping tight— too tight, but he was clearly having a bad day, and it didn’t really hurt (even if she was pretty sure she’d find fingerprint-shaped bruises on her delicate skin at the end of the day), so she stayed quiet and let him kiss her a little too deeply. “Hi, Tam,” she murmured, settling back on her heels once he let her go.

“Let’s get some food now.” He grabbed her hand and started walking without waiting for an answer from either her or Lucien. Both of them scrambled after him, wandering into the food court and grabbing their usual lunches before returning to where Tamlin stood in line to check out.

“How is it that I’m already bogged down with work halfway through the third day of classes,” Tamlin groaned. “I thought syllabus week was supposed to be chill.”

“I think that was only true for freshman year,” Lucien added as he slid back into his seat and dug into his fries. “Because my professors are also starting in on assignments and real content already.”

Tamlin just grunted in response, taking a bite of his burger instead. 

“It’s gotta be something with the STEM professors,” Feyre posited. “My English comp professor is the only one who hasn’t started really lecturing us. But in biochem…” She rolled her eyes, knowing she was being overdramatic, but she was still freshly annoyed by her interaction with Rhysand. “I’m already knee-deep in that competition with the same guy from last year.”

“Good luck with that. Academic rivalries can last into tenured positions. Just ask my brother.” 

“Don’t encourage her, Lucien,” Tamlin interjected, placing a hand on Feyre’s shoulder. It was probably supposed to be comforting, but it felt condescending. “Such antics are beneath her.”

Feyre wrinkled her nose, frowning up at him. Beneath her. What a ridiculous notion. She was fucking nineteen and entitled to have a little fun. Maybe even do some stupid or immature shit. Wasn’t that what college was for? And this was relatively innocuous compared to the kinds of things her freshman year roommate had told her about. “Maybe the arguing is petty, but I think that having someone to compete with is a good motivator for my studies. Having more than one reason to strive for good grades is helpful.”

He merely sighed shortly through his nose. “Fine. Just don’t let it distract you. You’re busy enough with school as it is, I feel like I barely see you during the days.”

“Oh, Tamlin. I’m sorry. I’ve been getting used to this semester’s schedule. We can build in more time for us once we get better settled into our routines, I promise.” She really was sorry, but playing it up a little wouldn’t hurt him. Tamlin’s ego was a bit more fragile than most.

That managed to elicit a smile, and Feyre hummed, content with her success in placating him. 

~

Laboratory classes didn’t start until the second week of the semester, so that’s how long it took for Feyre to realize that Rhysand was also in her microbiology laboratory. Just perfect.

Even more perfect? The TA, a grad student named Alis, had a list of assigned lab partners. Just to make sure nobody feels left out or gets into arguments that fuck up friendships, she’d said. And what name followed Feyre Archeron on Alis’ little list? None other than Rhysand Knight. Great. Now she had to spend a minimum of two hours, twice a week, sitting right next to him. Working with him.

He flashed her that irreverent smirk as he made his way to the second stool at her lab station. “Look at that, Feyre darling. It seems the universe is determined to match us up.”

Match them up? Was he fucking flirting with her? Feyre huffed in annoyance, flipping open her lab notebook with far more force than necessary. “I have a boyfriend, asshole.”

“Good for you,” he laughed. Why did it make him look so much better? No, she chastised herself. You hate him. “I meant match us up as in academic equals, sweetheart. Not romantic partners. Though if you’re asking—”

“Don’t fucking finish that thought.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it, Feyre darling.”

She grimaced. “Can you drop it with the darling bullshit?”

“Such a filthy mouth for a classroom,” Rhysand chided, adopting a look of stern reprimand, even as one corner of his mouth quirked up. 

Feyre fought the urge to groan aloud. Of course he was like Lucien in his ability to goad her into a verbal sparring match. Unfortunate, then, that she disliked him so intensely. A retort was on the tip of her tongue when Tamlin’s words echoed in her head. Such antics are beneath her. So, instead of bitching back at him as she secretly wished to, she sighed. “Yeah, yeah. What lab experience do you have and how do you want to split up responsibilities for today’s activity?”

For a moment, it looked almost as if Rhysand was disappointed at her neglecting to return his banter, but his expression returned to one of bland appraisal before Feyre could be sure. Huh. Maybe he liked the way she tried to best him at any and every opportunity? That idea should have annoyed her— he should be just as annoyed with her as she was with him, right?— but it just made her curious. She still thought he was vexing, don’t get her wrong.

“I started in Amren’s lab last year, but I wasn’t really in charge of the bacterial stuff that’s going on, so I’m not going to be any kind of expert here.”

“Okay,” she said, at a loss for what else to say. He’d admitted that so readily. He also was familiar enough with Dr. L’Adven that he called her by her first name. “I haven’t done much, but I did help Dr. B with the frozen cultures this summer.”

His eyes widened a fraction. “You work with Dr. Bryaxis?”

“Yeah? He’s great.”

“My brother took one of his classes to cover his science requirement last year and said he was a terrifying hardass. Told me not to take his classes if I could help it.”

Wow. Feyre supposed Dr. B could be kinda strict, but he most certainly wasn’t terrifying. Perhaps it was just because she’d only been his research assistant, and not a student in one of his classes, but he seemed to enjoy teaching well enough that it didn’t add up in her mind. “I mean, he’s not the friendliest face in the department, but I certainly wouldn’t call him terrifying.”

Rhysand just huffed a laugh. “I’m so mocking Cass for that when I get home tonight. He’s a huge guy, strong as hell, and terrified of Dr. Bryaxis, but here you are, tiny and slim and… what, five foot two? Yet you’re here singing the man’s praises.”

“I’m not that tiny,” her voice came out in a querulous whine before she could catch herself. “But thanks, I guess? I honestly can’t tell whether or not you meant that as a compliment.”

“I was mostly insulting my brother because it’s funny, but yeah, it’s also a compliment to you.”

“Well, I hope you weren’t expecting one from me in return, because you’ll be sorely disappointed.”

“Why Feyre darling, you wound me!” He brought a hand to his chest in mock affront, gasping dramatically. 

She shook her head. Why was she fighting a laugh when she didn’t even like him? Ugh. This was about to be a ridiculously long semester, what with how often she had to see Rhysand, how often she had to work with him. “Note to self, do not compliment Rhysand at risk of inflating his already oversized ego.”

His eyebrows raised, and that was definitely a pleased smile on his face. Feyre had no clue why he seemed to enjoy bickering and trading insults with her so much, not when her voice almost never carried the undercurrent of fondness that it did when she was snarking at Lucien. “How will I ever survive without compliments from you?”

“Are you sure you’re not taking any acting courses? You have more than enough drama to be involved in theatre.” Funny, she’d said the same thing to Lucien the week before.

“Ah, you think me a worldly man. If I knew more Shakespeare, I would quote him right now.”

Feyre was debating a rebuttal when Alis spoke from the front of the room, saving her from the argument with Rhysand that seemed to be going in circles. When she pulled up a slideshow on the projector, Feyre swallowed.

Sitting next to Rhysand while she was lectured at meant that he’d see her abhorrent note-taking skills. Shit. Lab notes were one thing, but writing down the differences between Gram-positive and Gram-negative bacteria, complete with complex words like peptidoglycan, was difficult for her, and that was the last thing she wanted Rhysand to know. To show weakness was to open herself up to mockery, and she couldn’t stand it if he had more ammunition than just his higher grades on class assignments. Her chest was already tightening with preemptive anxiety that she attempted to breathe through.

And— fuck, Alis had already moved onto the next slide. Feyre inhaled deeply, glared at her notebook, then tried to pick out the most important bullet points to jot down in her elementary scrawl, scribbling half-sentences about cell walls and staining procedures with no real method or organization.

Glancing to Rhysand’s notebook, she saw neat lines of print divided into organized bullet points. A soft sigh escaped her as she rested her head on her hand, giving up on her notes. It was hopeless. She wouldn’t ever measure up to that. To him. It was a futile endeavor. The slides got posted online, anyway, she could just refer to them when she needed the information.

Her sigh got his attention, though. “Hey,” he whispered, nudging her gently. “Everything okay?”

“Fine.”

He nodded, then jotted down something Alis said about iodine, large hands remarkably precise as his small, neat handwriting began to fill the page. “Feel free to tell me if it’s ever not, okay?”

“Uh-huh,” Feyre muttered, dismissive. As if she’d go to him with her problems. He gloated when his grades were higher, he called her darling even when she told him not to, and he was just generally an annoyance. If she weren’t so in her head about how she’d retain the lecture materials, she might have thought more about how odd it was that he even offered to be a listening ear. As it was, she wrote it off as one of those things people say to be polite.

Luckily, most of their lab activities didn’t rely on Feyre’s abysmal note-taking skills. As long as she had copied the procedure from the online printouts into her lab notebook prior to class and filled in the results sections in her packet, she was set. And Rhysand wouldn’t bother her about notes.

He did, however, bother her in many other ways.

Whenever Alis handed back an assignment, he leaned over her shoulder to peek at the number scrawled in friendly blue marker at the top of the page. His large form behind hers invoked a primal sense of anxiety the first time it happened, but her tense muscles relaxed when she caught a glimpse of his dark hair out of her periphery or a subtle whiff of whatever cologne he wore. He’d pulled away when she tensed, oddly intuitive and far more respectful than she’d assumed he’d be. After she relaxed, though, Rhysand seemed to take it as permission to continue being a busybody, and started to make it a habit. “Somebody knows her staining protocols,” he hummed during their fourth or fifth class, peering at the circled ‘100’ next to her name on the paper. “I’ll have to make sure you monitor me while I do mine.”

Feyre looked at him in confusion. “She posts all the staining procedures online. I just copied them down for the assignment.”

“Oh, I know,” Rhysand smiled, eyes crinkling at the corners. “Am I not allowed to compliment my lab partner?”

“Not when it could be misconstrued as condescending, no,” she grumbled. “Will you grab us a refill of swabs so we can get started on the streak plates we’re supposed to inoculate today?”

He nodded and silently made his way over to the corner of the lab with extra supplies, and returned with a handful of swab packets and a shit-eating grin.

“Oh gods,” Feyre deadpanned. “What sort of insane scheme have you concocted up in that pretty little head of yours?”

She realized her mistake as soon as he sat down next to her with an even bigger grin. “So you think I’m pretty?”

“It’s a saying, Rhysand.”

“Rhysand? Come on, Feyre, only my enemies call me that. We’ve been working together for a few weeks now, surely you can call me Rhys.”

Was it worth giving in? Her decision was made quickly: no, it wasn’t worth it. Plus, maybe her continued use of ‘Rhysand’ would annoy him in the same way his continued use of ‘Feyre darling’ annoyed her. She wouldn’t announce that, though. “I’ll think about it. Now cough up your harebrained scheme.”

His chuckle was warm, entirely unperturbed by her flat tone. “Well, Feyre darling, since you seem to enjoy competing with me— or rather, beating me in these imaginary competitions— so much, I figured we could motivate each other. That’s what a good lab partner would do, no?” He looked at her with those stupidly pretty eyes, reflecting almost purple in the warm light of the lab. Ugh. What gave him the right to be so fucking annoying while still being attractive? Or, probably more apt, what gave him the right to be so attractive and also horrifically irritating? Either way, Feyre probably shouldn’t admit to finding him attractive, even if it’s objectively true. It was easy enough to ignore when he was bothering her. Wait— imaginary competitions? What the fuck was that supposed to mean? She’d just parted her lips to ask when Rhysand continued speaking, and let the question fizzle away. “Why don’t we see who can get the best isolated colonies from a quadrant streak plate?”

Her brows raised.  It was actually a pretty smart idea, much as she hated to admit it. “That’s only going to be an active competition for the next week or two.”

“Well, then we find something to move onto after that. I hear acid-fast stains are hard to perfect.”

Feyre drew her lower lip between her teeth as she thought it over. He was right. The competition did motivate her; she’d defended her stupid rivalry with him to Tamlin using that exact reasoning. And it was more fun than just trying to get a good grade. Cauldron forbid he ever found out that she thought this was fun; she’d never hear the end of it. “Fine,” she conceded after a moment. “You’re so fucking on.”

~

“—and I’m actually going along with it, which is probably the stupidest thing I’ve ever agreed to, but as much as I hate to admit it— and I really, really hate to admit it— he’s right. It’s a good motivator!”

Lucien sighed in amusement from his spot on the couch, untangling and rebraiding his auburn hair as if he was entirely unbothered by Feyre’s near shouting rant. “Why haven’t you just made friends with him yet?” His good eye tracked her as she paced across the floor of their living room.

“Because!” She huffed, about two seconds away from throwing her hands up in the air. “He’s arrogant, and annoying, and he thinks me being mad and competitive is funny—”

“Okay, but it is kind of funny,” he interrupted. One hand extended out, gesturing at her current state. “You’re pacing and ranting about the fact that he’s being lighthearted about this whole thing.”

“Have I mentioned that he insists on calling me Feyre darling, Lucien? Because that’s pretty fucking irksome.”

Of course, that was the moment that Tamlin turned his key in the door and stepped into the apartment. Feyre could hear the telltale sounds of his shoes being kicked off, and she stilled, waiting to assess his mood. Lucien, too, had stilled, the smile gone from his face, whatever comeback had been on his tongue silenced.

Tamlin’s piercing green eyes locked on Feyre, striding quickly to her side. “Who the fuck is calling you darling?” His voice was dark, rough, possessive— and not in a cute or sexy way. “And why, Feyre, are you letting him?”

She swallowed, fighting the fear that tried to rear up within her. This was Tamlin, her love, her partner. He wouldn’t hurt her, no matter how annoyed he was. She just had to explain the situation, and he would understand, and calm down, and things would be okay. “It’s the guy I told you about, the one I have the whole competitive rivalry with?” Looking up at her boyfriend revealed that his eyes were still dark with either suspicion or jealousy, and narrowed as he scrutinized her. “And I’ve told Rhysand to stop, but I don’t control the words that come out of his mouth. If it wasn’t clear, I hate it as much as you do.”

“Hold on, it’s Rhysand you have this weird thing with? Rhysand Knight?”

Well, Feyre seemed to have incredibly misjudged the situation. He was not calming down. In fact, he appeared even angrier than he had moments before, eyes darkening; none of the glimmer she loved so much remained inside his verdant irises. 

Why the hell did he have such an issue with Rhysand? Did they somehow know each other? This may not have been the best time to ask, but she’d always struggled a little bit with the art of holding her tongue. The feud she had with Rhysand was just one example of that.

“Yeah? Do you know him or something?”

“Or something,” Lucien muttered.

Tamlin turned to him, his long hair falling over his shoulders. “Did you know it was Rhysand this whole time?”

Lucien blinked, clearly searching for the right set of words: ones that won’t set Tamlin off. “No. I found out just now, same as you. I don’t know how she managed to shit-talk him for a whole year without mentioning his name, but—”

Shit. Feyre tried to subtly slice her hand across the front of her throat in a clear ‘shut-the-fuck-up’ gesture, but her friend didn’t cut himself off in time. At least Lucien looked contrite as he finally snapped his mouth shut and cringed at her in apology before he made himself scarce. 

“Were you trying to hide this from me, Fey?”

“No, of course not!” 

He sighed, removing the hand that had been on her shoulder, and moved to stand in front of her, arms crossed over his chest. She felt like a child being reprimanded, and that ate at her. She wasn’t a child, and Tamlin wasn’t entitled to every single detail of her life. “Then how the hell did you just so happen to never mention the fact that your rivalry was with Rhysand, of all people, until just now?”

She fought the urge to scrunch her brows, knew it would make her look like the petulant child he was treating her as, especially with her arms crossed as they were. “I didn’t know you even knew of him, Tam. This is a huge school, with students from all over Prythian. International students, too. I didn’t think that naming him would mean anything to you, especially with how much you hate when I talk about our rivalry.”

His face softened, her handsome boyfriend emerging from the shell of anger that had encased him since he walked in the door. “You’re right. I’m sorry, Feyre, I shouldn’t have assumed the worst. I just— he’s not a good person, my love. I don’t trust him.”

“Not a good person? In what way?”

Rhysand had never struck Feyre as being dangerous or manipulative. Sure, he was arrogant, with his good looks and incessant flirting. He was definitely intimidating, with his lithe, muscular build, broad shoulders, and those dark, abstract tattoos. And he was definitely really fucking annoying. 

“It’s complicated, honey. Just… can you trust me on this? Please?” Tamlin brought a large hand up to cup her cheek, sweet and gentle. Feyre softened.

“Of course I trust you, Tam. I’ll be careful, okay?”

He made a low noise in his throat that sounded like a growl, but seemed to catch himself. “Okay. Okay. No talking to him outside of class or any more than necessary, though, right?”

“Of course,” Feyre nodded.

With that, their argument seemed to end. Tamlin gently tilted her face up towards his and bent down to kiss her. She melted into the warmth of his lips, letting him mold her with his hands. This was always how they came back together after any spats. He took what comfort he could from her body, a reassurance that always seemed to do far more than words to earn his forgiveness. Feyre didn’t blame him for it. Her body had always been able to speak better than anything else. Vocabulary got tangled in her mouth, and she had a horrible habit of speaking faster than she thought. Her body had no such issues, always eagerly responding to Tamlin’s touch, showing him how willing she was, proving her love for him.

She leaned up on her toes to get a better angle, spine arching as Tamlin pressed her body into his with a palm splayed at the small of her back.  They didn’t need words at all after that. Tamlin’s teeth and lips and tongue spoke plenty, nipping and licking and sucking down her body, as if he could taste her expiation on her skin.

Before long, Feyre lost track of why they had even been arguing in the first place. When they fell into her bed, when his fingers plunged into her, when his cock dragged pure ecstasy from the core of her being, Tamlin’s name was the only one on her lips.

It was late at night by the time his words came back to haunt her.

Tamlin had slipped back into his own bedroom after he finished, as usual. It had stopped hurting a while back— he just needed his own space, and Feyre couldn’t begrudge him that. For a long while, she just stared at the dark ceiling, tracing the beam of moonlight that sliced through the room. 

He’s not a good person. I don’t trust him.

Why, though?

This wasn’t the kind of thing Feyre could just take at face value. Not when she had exactly zero evidence to back it up for herself. Tamlin didn’t have a reason to lie to her about it, either. Not that she knew of. 

Clearly it wasn’t the kind of thing that she could easily bring up to Tamlin again, though. She groaned softly, frustrated, and turned to lay on her other side. “I still have to work with him.” Her complaint echoed in the silky darkness that blanketed the bedroom.