#frfteam

Immediately they flicked a glance towards each other. When they looked her way again, Azriel’s expression hadn’t changed: still stoic and uninformative. Cassian, however, was fighting a grin. She narrowed her gaze, and that made him lose the battle. With full-blown amusement, he casually answered, “Heard you were looking for a driving instructor.”

Feyre stared dumbly at him.

He raised an eyebrow, and Azriel cocked his head. She had to look twice, but somehow Feyre was starting to notice a glint of amusement in his dark eyes as well.

Realizing they were serious, she snorted. “The Nightwings are going to give me driving lessons.”

“Know anyone better equipped?”

“If I want to live past my first lesson, yes.”

“She’s not wrong,” Azriel commented dryly as he nudged Cassian, “if you’re the one teaching her.”

Cassian scoffed, and Feyre pursed her lips. She wouldn’t survive learning from any of the most dangerous street racers ever to hit their small, backwater town. Her heart pounded faster, just thinking about it. Still, no one else had offered her this chance before--not her father, not Tamlin, not Lucien. This could be not just her best chance, but her only chance.

So, with caution but also certainty, she replied, “Fine.”

That seemed to catch both boys off-guard. They stared at her, Azriel in curiosity and Cassian in delight. He then rattled off where they should meet for her first lesson in one short breath--as if he was expecting her to change her mind before they could make plans--before dragging a still puzzled Azriel away.

Feyre sighed as she watched them go, excitement and anticipation building as she considered what she had really just gotten herself into.

When Feyre showed up to the empty parking lot near the abandoned warehouse the following Saturday, only Cassian was there. He was grinning, and as she got closer she scowled at discovering why. He was wearing a helmet, as well as three layers of clothing for makeshift padding.

“I think I’m more in danger of your driving habits than mine,” she sniped.

“Safety first,” he said mockingly.

Feyre just rolled her eyes before stepping around him. Sliding into the driver’s seat, she forgot about her smug instructor for a moment as she relished the feel of the steering wheel under her hands. It felt good, to be in the driver’s seat, in the position of control. She couldn’t stop herself from smiling as she looked towards Cassian again.

He smiled back at her, this time without a trace of teasing. It was a genuine smile, one of understanding and camaraderie.

“You look mighty fine behind the wheel, there.”

“I’d look better with wind in my hair,” she replied.

Cassian chuckled, then nodded. “Then let’s get to it.”

He jogged around to the other side of the car, and Feyre felt a thrill go through her, because it was about damn time.

Four weeks of lessons later, and Feyre wondered why she bothered to spend time places other than behind the wheel of a car.

“Christ,” Cassian growled as they swung back into the parking lot and halted abruptly. “I never thought I’d meet someone with worse lead foot than Mor.”

Feyre rolled her eyes, blood still singing from the little race around town. Mor had proclaimed her a natural early on, which had made her both proud and daring. And as much as Cassian was grumbling at her now, he had been whooping just as loudly as she and Mor back on the road.

“I resent that,” Mor said haughtily from the back seat, flicking Cassian’s ear. She rode along for most of Feyre’s lessons--though not on Azriel’s days anymore, because the tension from whatever was not going on between them almost resulted in Feyre crashing into a lake--and occasionally taught her too.

“I take it as a compliment,” Feyre added, causing Mor to blow her a kiss.

Cassian groaned again, so Feyre revved the car teasingly. His hand flew out to stop her from shifting out of park, which just made her laugh.

“Scaredy cat,” Mor drawled.

He flipped her off instead of responding, and though Feyre laughed, she relented and turned the car off. As they climbed out to switch places so Cassian could drive her home, she dared ask, “Coming back for another round tomorrow?”

He just smiled knowingly at her, and her stomach dropped. “Ah.”

“Tell Rhysand hello for me,” he teased.

With a huff, Feyre grumbled under her breath, “You’ll see him before I will.”

Cassian and Mor’s laughter was cut off by the sound of the engine rumbling to life and then the screeching of tires as they pulled out of the parking lot.

Her lesson with Rhys the next day went as well as any of hers with him had: fine, until he reached over to adjust her grip, or he shifted in his seat, or laughed, or made eye contact with her. Feyre grit her teeth every time she found herself distracted by him. It was ridiculous really, because he didn’t appear to be even trying to make her lose her focus. Instead, he was patient and funny and clear in his instruction. That just made it all the more frustrating that it was all on her end.

Except, sometimes, when she’d glance at him out of the corner of her eye, she would see...something. A tenseness in his shoulders, caution and car in the way he looked at her. Those little glimpses saved her from going crazy thinking it was just her who felt that something.

Two more lessons with him later, and she couldn’t take it any longer. They were speeding down the middle of a one-lane road, but she slammed on the brakes regardless.

“Shit,” Rhys hissed, as he braced himself on the dashboard.

Feyre just turned quickly in her seat to face him and demanded, “Why do you keep looking at me?”

“To make sure you don’t drive us into a ditch,” he sniped back, without missing a beat.

She glared at him, even as he quirked a smug half-smile at her. Still, he was holding back from a full grin, and she grasped onto that. She wasn’t going to let either of them hide behind half-truths any more.

“Rhys.”

He stared at her, and she felt something in her chest unfurl, and her heart stuttered at the intensity of him. She didn’t let her words stutter, though, as she pressed onward. “Why do you keep looking at me, Rhys?”

“Feyre,” he sighed. His eyes darted away from her face. She wasn’t having it. Reaching up, she grabbed his chin and forced him to face her, to continue facing her, them, this.

“Rhys,” she drawled.

“I look at you,” he rasped, “because I can’t take my eyes off you. Whenever you’re around, I can’t help but look at you. When you’re not around, I close my eyes and I still see you. Your smile, your strength. You are everywhere, Feyre. I see you everywhere, and so I can’t ever, don’t want to ever look away.”

His voice was a whisper by the end. His eyes were closed too. Feyre smiled, and slowly leaned up and out of her seat. As her lips brushed his, she heard his breath suck in. It was the last sound she heard besides the rush of blood in her ears as the spark lit between them. Because she wasn’t kissing him any longer; he was kissing her, and it set her alight. His large hands gripped her waist tight, hauling her over the console onto his lap. Feyre bit his lip in retaliation, but then his fingers found the hem of her shirt. He smoothed his calloused fingertips along her skin, and so she ran her hands through his hair, tugging his head so she could deepen the kiss and regain control.

He let her do that, and let her shrug his jacket off his shoulders, and kiss her way down and back up his neck. Rhys didn’t stay idle during her exploration, through. His hands mapped her, kneading and teasing until she was breathing her name against skin over and over.

She was just about to reach for his shirt to take it off when the beep of a horn made her shriek. Rhys’ hands tightened around her waist, and she swore she heard him growl. The horn sounded again, along with a muffled, annoyed shout.

Rhys turned around, scowling, and Feyre peeked over his shoulder. A car was idling behind them, rumbling and honking impatiently. She felt a pang of annoyance herself (she did not appreciate the interruption), but before she could flip off the intruders, Rhys was moving. She yelped as he flipped her around, smoothly sliding from his seat to the driver’s. Before she even sat up all the way, he was shifting the stick and punching the gas. The tires wrenched against the rough pavement as they streaked off into the afternoon.

“Rhys!” she shouted, the laughter in her voice outweighing the shock.

“Best we get somewhere private, quickly,” he yelled over the roaring engine. “Unless you wanted everyone to see us ha--”

“Rhys!” she exclaimed. He shot a sly glance at her, eyes twinkling with heat and mischief. It made her stomach clench in excitement and anticipation. So one hand she intertwined with his, and the other she raised into the air, letting the wind swish and twine its way around her wiggling fingers.

Her friend swirled her cotton candy pink skirt with a large smile. “Only if Amren does.”

“I need a smoke,” Amren immediately replied in a flat tone. Her skin-tight black and red dress shimmered in the dim lights of the gym as she high-tailed it to the bathroom.

Sighing in defeat, Feyre simply tugged Mor towards the crowded dance floor. An upbeat rock’n’roll beat filled the air; it fit their mood perfectly. Feyre twisted and shouted, shimmied and spun around with her friend for song after song after song until her stomach hurt from laughing so hard.

She was just untangling herself from a pretzel gone amusingly wrong with Mor when she heard the music change. Almost immediately, a strong and welcome arm slipped around her front.

“Can I steal a dance?” Rhys whispered in her ear.

Feyre suppressed a warm shiver as she teased, “You’ll need to ask Mor.”

When she looked back at her former partner, though, she was no longer there. Azriel was tugging her towards the edge of the floor, for what looked like a slow dance of their own. Smiling, Feyre turned in Rhys’ arms to do the same. “Looks like I’ve been left to fend for myself.”

“While you are more than capable of doing that, I’m happy to provide some assistance so you don’t have to dance all by your lonesome.”

“Acceptable,” Feyre drawled.

A long, warbling note later, she was pressed tight against Rhys. Her hands lay lightly on his chest, with his resting one above the other very low on her back. She expected a teacher to come over and reprimand them for inappropriate closeness at some point, but for now she just leaned closer. She was going to enjoy this for as long as she could.

One what felt their tenth slow turn to the music, Rhys leaned down. His lips brushed her ear, causing her to breathe in sharply, as he said, “I got us a race next week.”

Her head jerked up so fast that she almost bumped his chin. Feyre felt his chest rumble with a chuckle under her hands, which were curling into his grease-stained shirt. “What? When, where, with who?”

“Tarquin,” he said, his dark eyes glimmering with excitement. “He’s the best the Heat have. We don’t have the details worked out yet, but you’re ready.”

Feyre paused, straightening up to look Rhys directly. “Wait. Me? I’m going to be racing him.”

He leaned over, his lips pressed together in amusement. “I mean, I’ll be riding shotgun, but yes, you, in the driver’s seat.”

She opened her mouth, trying to stutter out a protest, but it wouldn’t come. Her heart thudded with too much exhilaration to let her speak a lie like that. She wanted this, and she was ready. She really was, and she glanced up at Rhys, cheeks warming because he knew that too. His faith in her suddenly overwhelmed her, and she surged up on her toes to kiss him deeply, thoroughly, and entirely inappropriately for a school gymnasium. He took it in stride, then took over as he bent her backwards, tasting her and feeling her and making her melt from the inside out.

They were both laughing as Cassian and Mor dragged them away from the furious faculty heading in their direction. When they burst out the gym doors, the cool night air hit her like a wall, but she reveled in it. The heat inside her--from Rhys, his kiss, his confidence in her, her confidence in herself--would keep her warm enough. Feyre couldn’t contain herself much longer, so she grabbed Rhys hand and started running towards the car. The rest of the Nightwings were pounding along close behind them, joking and yelling and laughing as they all piled into the car.

Mor cocked her head, puzzled. “Of course...but might I add I thought it would be Amren coming to me asking to switch?”

Feyre laughed. The third (and most ancient) female member of the Night Court who had also been asked to participate in the Winter Court’s Yuletide ceremonies had been none too pleased to draw the role of the Crone. Rhys had snickered, and Cassian outright laughed at the coincidence--coincidence my ass, Amren had muttered in response. They both had paid for their amusement dearly with a few thrashings in the sparring ring over the next few weeks. Feyre and Mor were sympathetic, but soon enough Amren got used to the idea, especially since their arrival at Winter Court. She spent most nights sequestered in her quarters and assembling what was seeming to be a very elaborate costume.

Feyre and Mor had been working on their costumes as well, and given that tonight was the ceremony, her request was somewhat ill-timed. Glancing downwards again, though, she smiled because she had a very good reason. “Just...call it an indulgence. Besides, I think Azriel would be quite pleased to see you in the Maiden costume.”

She raised her eyebrows meaningfully--the costume was a bit on the scandalous side--and Mor made a face at her.

Then her friend said, “What, you think Rhys would be more pleased to see you in the Mother costume?”

Mor let out a little laugh, and Feyre joined in a beat too late. Her friend noticed, sat straight up, disbelief and wonder on her face. “Feyre?”

Feyre raised a finger her her smiling lips in a plea of silence. Not heeding it, Mor screamed joyfully and flung herself practically on top of her. Embracing the hug with a giddy laugh, Feyre let happiness wash over her in a new way--because somebody besides her finally knew.

“He doesn’t know?” Mor demanded one she pulled back.

“He will,” Feyre answered in a mischievous tone. “Soon.”

“Then let’s get you dressed!”

Mor pulled her off the couch eagerly, and Feyre followed, smiling without reservation.

The ceremony itself was simple, short, and straightforward. Adorned in the costumes representing the three aspects of the goddess, Feyre, Mor, and Amren stood on a dais before the enormous burning Yule log. Its roaring flame was enough to cast the whole great hall in a warm, yellow light as well as provide ample heat, even for those at the back of the gathered fae crowd decked out in all manner of winter finery.

The priestesses of the Winter Court presided over the ceremony in their silver and white robes. Yuletide was the time of the Mother, as the sun became reborn and grew in strength as they moved through winter towards spring. As such, Feyre received the gift of flame from the Crone, who had been reigning since Samhain. Amren lit her long black candle from the Yule log, then delivered it to Feyre’s red one. As Feyre held it aloft for the crowd to see, she also let one of her mental walls down. It was a delicate one, crafted so ingeniously that Rhys hadn’t even realized it was there for the past several weeks. Feyre smiled and felt delight and nervousness kindle inside her as it fell, revealing the small but strong presence that was new inside of her.

Even from the dais, she heard Rhys’ breath catch. She didn’t dare meet his gaze until the ceremony was done; she wouldn’t have been able to contain herself. As soon as she stepped off the platform, however, her mate swept her into a tight embrace.

After a spin or two, she pulled back, smiling at his blazing grin, placing her hands over his, which were on her hip and cupping her face.

“Are you really--”

“Yes,” Feyre interrupted breathlessly. “I”m pregnant.”

“And you’re ready? You want this? It, him, her?”

“It could be a him and a her, them.”

Rhys eyes widened in realization, even a hint of terror.

Feyre let out a peal of loud laughter, then swayed into him. “We can handle it.”

He let out a breath, then a sheepish half-smile. “I suppose we can.”

Feyre reached up and pulled him down for a reassuring kiss, one that turned passionate as he arched her against every inch of him.

He trailed kiss up her jaw, mouthing the rim of her ear. “I wonder when it happened.”

“You know,” Feyre whispered back, her voice a little throaty. She blushed, remembering the particularly intense weekend they spent this fall alone in the cabin. “That one night, under the stars.”

He chuckled, and everything in her pulled tight and hot, because she remembered feeling so free and loved as they pressed together, skin to skin, in the pitch black lit only by dim moonlight.

“Our own little bit of stardust,” Rhys murmured.

The wonder in his voice warmed her in a soft way, and she closed her eyes, sighing in contentment. She stood in Rhys’ arms for another moment before pulling back. As she tipped her head up to look at him, something above them caught her eye. When she got a better look, she realized a vine of mistletoe was spiraling down from the ceiling, growing towards them. When it was a foot above their heads, it bloomed outward in a burst of leaves and berries.

“Seems someone inspired a bit of magic,” Cassian cat-called from across the way. When Rhys turned to glare at him, she noticed that many in the hall were looking at the pair of them, most amused but some wide-eyed at their public display of affection.

Feyre just laughed at their friend’s teasing, then gasped as Rhys twirled her around into a dip. Dramatically, he leaned down, his mouth a breath away from hers.

“Everyone is staring, so I figured we might as well give them something to look at,” he quipped, eyes dancing with amusement.

“So dramatic--” The rest of her comment was cut off by his mouth claiming hers, and Feyre melted into the kiss as the dulcet sounds of a holiday carol wafted around them.

Feyre huffed and went to move away, but she froze when Rhys leaned forward. He was poised halfway over the counter, his face a breath away from hers.

“You got a little--” he paused, reached up, and brushed his thumb across her cheekbone, “--cream right there.”

Feeling her cheeks blush furiously, Feyre hurried out from behind the counter, and Rhys’ chuckle followed her as she went. She felt his gaze follow her too, but after a few glares over her shoulder, he stopped. He didn’t leave, just went about eating his food. At one point, she saw him complimenting Alis, who blushed and smiled like a schoolgirl. Another time she saw him spinning slightly on his stool, fingers drumming on the flecked counter. She didn’t even realize how often she was looking over until an hour later, when she glanced across the now quieter diner and startled at seeing his seat empty.

She grimaced at herself, stacking dirty dishes onto her tray with a little too much vigor. The clinking of ceramic against glass finally jolted her back to reality: cleaning tables, taking orders of the few customers remaining, starting the closing up process. She dragged herself behind the counter and wearily pushed the full tray behind the window for the dish boy to grab.

When she turned around, she nearly jumped out of her skin seeing someone new leaning over the front counter.

“How’s it shakin’?” Lucien asked in an amused tone.

“Tell Tamlin I’ll be out in twenty minutes,” she answered.

Feyre watched him turn towards the front windows and hold up two fingers at the car idling near the door. The headlights flashed in acknowledgement.

“I hate this,” Feyre sighed, starting to wipe down the counters. “Keeping you guys out late before mornings when you have practice.”

Lucien shrugged. “Tamlin doesn’t mind driving you around. And I don’t mind keeping him company.”

“I mind. My dad has a car, which he never uses, so if I just learned to drive--”

“Really, it’s alright. We’ve got you.”

Feyre turned and pursed her lips. They had this conversation before, and the result was always the same. She still didn’t know how to drive. Not that she hadn’t mentioned learning to Tamlin and Lucien before, but they’d just exchanged amused glances and changed the subject.

As she got things in proper order for closing, Lucien ambled over to the jukebox. From the corner of her eye, she watched him browse through the options. She couldn’t help but smile when he put on one of her favorite songs, glancing over his shoulder and winking. The music helped speed her up, so before she knew it, she was putting on her coat and heading to Lucien near the door.

Just as she went to push outside, Lucien held her back.

“You have something on your cheek.”

“Oh, no.” Feyre rubbed at her face, expecting her hands to come away sticky. Instead, her fingers felt a little slick.

“What is that?” Lucien asked, staring down at her fingertips, which were smeared faintly with black.

“Nothing,” Feyre said quickly, swallowing down the real answer: engine grease. Lucien stared at her, and she masked her nervousness with a small smile. “Just some cooking oil.”

Then she pushed out into the brisk night, with her boyfriend’s best friend on her heels. The wind whipped up as she walked to Tamlin’s car, and she hopped its chill would be enough to cool down the flush that was rising up again on her cheeks, the ones that had been smeared with car grease and still recalled too well what Rhys’ fingers felt like brushing against her skin.

Feyre tried to focus on the chalk words scrawled across the board at the classroom’s front, but the twisting of her stomach made it difficult. Her gut clenched, and then it heaved, and then she couldn’t just sit there silent among her equally bored classmates anymore. She raised her hand and asked to go to the bathroom. Ms. Mercenry frowned a bit, but still nodded. Carefully, Feyre rose from her seat and forced her pace to stay calm and slow as she exited, even as her stomach threatened to embarrass her.

The classroom door hadn’t even shut completely behind her before she started running for the nurse’s office. She was halfway there when she realized she wasn’t going to make it. Stopping dead, she swiveled, looking for a bathroom door. The best she could immediately find was a janitor’s closet with a trashcan. Hunching over, she started vomiting right into the large barrel. Her hands gripped the sides to keep it from rolling away. She prayed no one could hear her.

On the third round of her stomach emptying itself, she heard the door creak open. Composing herself for a millisecond, she straightened to find Rhys staring at her.

“Swell,” she groaned before she was forced to lean over the barrel again.

To her surprise, he didn’t say a word. Instead, he simply walked over to her and gathered her loose hair in his hands. As she continued to heave, Rhys held it out of the way, a quiet but strangely comforting presence.

When she felt truly empty, she straightened and tried to turn to face him, but he kept holding her hair.

“Hold on,” he murmured. Then he switched her bundled hair to one hand, and she heard rustling.

“What are you doing?” she demanded, scowling at how weak her voice sounded.

“Hold on,” Rhys repeated, with a gentle forcefulness this time.

While she wanted very badly to whip around, sudden movements were not the best idea at the moment. Standing still, though, was dangerous too, because she was suddenly getting warm shivers down her spine from the way Rhys was now playing with her hair. Rather, not playing, but seeming to gather it into a ponytail. When he finished, she heard the faintest of sighs and then him stepping away. Gently, she reached up and felt a rubber band twisted neatly together to hold her hair out of the way.

“All I had, sorry,” he offered as she turned to face him.

Feyre stared at him, at lack of an expression on his face. It was unsettling, because Rhys always had an expression, whether it be mirth, derision, smugness, anger, or mischief. Never had she seen him so blank, and it puzzled her. She opened her mouth to push him, but then her stomach clenched in warning.

Concern washed over his face, and that eased her mind, if not her stomach. Guiding her towards the door, he said, “I’ll walk you to the nurse.”

“No, I’ll be fine--”

He glared at her. “I’m walking you.”

Feyre waited for annoyance to flare up, but it didn’t. She assumed her sickness was simply overwhelming every other semblance of emotion, but to be safe, she put another foot of distance between her and Rhys as they walked down the hallway. She caught him rolling his eyes at that, but she didn’t react. It was all she could do to keep from heaving again, and getting to the nurse’s office before the next period ending was priority.

Thankfully, she got there in time. Waving Rhys off at the door, she walked in with her head held high. Her steadiness lasted long enough for her to briefly explain her problem to the nurse before she found her head over a trashcan again. The nurse clucked soothingly, but it didn’t stop Feyre from another round of vomiting.

“Is there anyone we can call to come get you?” the nurse asked.

“My boyfriend, Tamlin Springer--” Feyre paused for another bit of coughing up, “--can drive me home after his practice this afternoon.”

“Honey, you should be at home sooner than that. Now, in fact.”

“After class is--” she had to take another pause,  “--alright.”

The nurse clucked again, disapproving this time, but Feyre heard her call to a student in the hall to take a note to Tamlin’s class. Relief flooded her, but it was soon replaced by exhaustion as she tallied the exact number of class periods she would have to make it through until she could go home. Closing her eyes, she laid down and steeled herself for a very long day.

The sound of the next bell gave her a little hope. One down. She kept her eyes closed even when the office door opened. When she heard the light footsteps approach her, though, she cracked one lid open.

“You look terrible,” Mor said, her tone teasingly cheerful.

“Thanks,” Feyre replied dryly. “I had no idea.”

“Do you need help standing? Because I’m stronger than I look.”

“What?”

“I’m taking you home, of course.”

Feyre opened both eyes wide in surprise. “What?”

“Alright, I know you’re ill, but I also know you heard me.”

“But you have class.”

Mor grinned. “Like a Nightwing’s never cut a class before.”

“But how did you kn--” Feyre cut herself off with a sigh. Rhys. Rhys told her.

Mor crouched down, her skirt poofing around her bent knees. Quietly, she added, “He knew you wouldn’t let him drive you, so he asked me.”

Feyre tried to frown, but she just didn’t have the energy. At the moment, she was just grateful, because she could go home, now. So she just motioned for Mor to help her up. They notified the nurse on the way out, who gave her a small plastic bucket for the journey and looked relieved that her patient wouldn’t have to wait around all day. Feyre was relieved too, and surprised at how that relief was intertwined with resentment towards Tamlin, even though he might have skipped out of class early if she had asked. But she hadn’t asked, because she was so sure what his answer would be (acquiescence, but reluctantly). Maybe it wasn’t fair, making assumptions, but she also wasn’t about to take the chance by asking Mor to go get him instead of taking her up on her offer.

She only vomited twice on the way home, which was progress. Mor walked her inside, set her up in her bedroom, and made her promise to call later that night to let her know how she was doing.

Just as she was leaving, Feyre called out, “Thank you.” She swallowed, and continued, “And tell him thanks also.”

Thankfully, Mor just nodded, waved, and closed the door behind her. Almost immediately after she left, Feyre drifted off to sleep. Dusk was falling when she woke, and her mouth was dry. Carefully, she sat up and ventured out into the kitchen. Nesta was at the kitchen table, making sandwiches for her and Elaine.

“You look terrible,” her sister said bluntly.

Feyre ignored her--as well as the fact that there were only two sandwiches being made, not three, even though she knew that Nesta knew she was home--and simply got herself a glass of water. It was all her stomach could probably handle at the moment anyways.

She took her first sip as Nesta picked up the plates and headed towards the living room. On her way out, she sniped, “You have something disgusting on your neck. Just so you know.”

Feyre rolled her eyes, but she still stopped in the bathroom on her way back to her dark, quiet, peaceful room. Twisting her shoulder forward and down so she could see the back of her neck, Feyre leaned in close to the mirror. There, across the nape, was dark smears, shining a bit in the bright light of the tiled room. She reached up to wipe it away with her hand, anticipating the slick feel of the grease, because she knew, with only one look, what it was and how it had gotten there. She sighed--not in annoyance, or exasperation, but because of something she couldn’t quite put her finger on yet.  

Gripping the counter with her now dirtied hands, she stared at herself in the mirror, wondering when she had become the type of girl who didn’t mind a little bit of messiness.

Feyre was walking down the hall, relieved that she would arrive at her next class early, when she was unceremoniously jerked by the wrist into an empty classroom.

“What are you doing?” she hissed when she was spun around to face Rhys.

“Feeling better?” he asked commandingly, as if he deserved the answer simply because he wanted it.

She scowled at him, and he just cocked his head, folded his arms over his chest, and waited. Wanting to win this game he had started, she stared mutely back with her hands on her hips. They watched each other, and the longer she stared, the more she didn’t want the silence to break. Her gaze traced over his broad shoulders, noticing the worn comfortability of his leather jacket, the way it fit him like a second skin and like armor at the same time. When she realized she had been staring at his chest--his very solid chest--for much too long, Feyre flicked her eyes up. His stare met hers, and for the first time, she realized that his eyes were such a dark blue that they were almost purple.

Her lips parted at the thought, and his expression seemed to soften.

“Are you feeling better?” The question was quiet this time, cautious, pleading.

Feyre relaxed, took a breath, and nodded.

“Really?”

“Yes.”

“I’m glad.” A beat passed, enough to let the sound of the hallway chatter break into their bubble, and then he quirked half a smirk at her. Her gaze narrowed, but before she could step away, he clasped her wrist again. Quickly he brought her hand to his forehead, which also brought her within a breath of him as well.

He hummed while she glared, and then declared, “Well, you don’t feel warm, so you must indeed be better.”

“You’re supposed to feel the patient’s forehead, not put their hand to yours,” she sniped. She tried jerking her hand away, but he didn’t let go. Instead, his hand moved up, so he was gripping her forearm. “Rhys, let me go.”

She tugged one more time, and then he released her. It was so sudden that she stepped back a few paces, hand dangling uselessly at her side. His half-smirk turned into a full one, and he winked at her. Irritated--both at his teasing and how damn good he looked when he was smiling--she turned on her heel and stalked towards the door.

So caught up in her annoyance, she didn’t think about the timing of it all. She walked out the door, and was only aware that Rhys was walking out right behind her, when she stepped into the hall and suddenly felt eyes on her. Not Rhys’, but everyone else’s. Her cheeks burned because it didn’t look good, the quarterback’s girlfriend walking flustered out of an empty classroom with the leader of the Nightwing’s casually at her back.

There wasn’t even a moment of silence with the stares; the mundane chatter immediately turned to speculative murmurs and snickers. Feyre simply tipped her chin up and strode forward; she had been doing just that her whole life, and silly rumors weren’t going to stop her now. She made it about four feet before she faltered, because there was Lucien and just in front of him was Tamlin, standing right in the middle of the hallway, looking half-heartbroken and half-furious.

The same mix of emotions swirled up in her, because she hadn’t done anything but also...she’d be lying if, late at night, she hadn’t thought about doing something with Rhys. So Feyre just stood there, gaze locked with Tamlin’s, with what felt like the entire school looking on. Her boyfriend broke their stare first, and as he looked down at her hand, his expression tensed. When she glanced down as well, she saw the reason for his anger: her entire wrist was covered in faint, grey lines, smeared swirls that encircled her wrist and streaked up her arm. She hadn’t even felt the grease on Rhys’ hand when he was touching her, and her cheeks burned, because she had been so focused on all the other things he was making her feel by being so close.

She and Tamlin didn’t make eye contact again. He just looked away and then turned around. Lucien gave her a sad look and then followed, as he always did. Feyre closed her eyes, because she knew that he wasn’t her boyfriend anymore. She waited for the tears to come, but they never did. The halls quieted as students moved on to their classes, she kept standing there, eyes shut, waiting for her emotions to settle.