Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

Feyre

Feyre felt like she’d gained a whole new vocabulary after speaking with the bright-eyed medical students pushing her through the hospital. She’d questioned the one walking next to her bed about what sort of tests needed to be done, to which he’d swiftly if slightly robotically recited she would need an echocardiogram, a CT scan, and possibly an angiogram if any concerns arose.

It took barely two more paces before she had the red-haired girl pushing her bed explaining the procedure of all three over her head, and after the length of two more hallways, Feyre felt infinitely more prepared for the afternoon’s tests.

Plus, after she’d apologised for the questions, both had assured her that it was fine. It was essentially extra studying for them.

Two hours later, she’d had the echocardiogram and CT scan, both coming back clear, and was swiftly wheeled back into her room. The first medical student had skittered off after being hailed by a disgruntled surgeon, so Feyre was alone with the red-haired girl.

Her name was Sasha, she’d informed Feyre with a smile.

Mor had disappeared it seemed and so had Suriel’s sudoku book. Not that Feyre wanted to look at a single number right now, with the dull throbbing starting in her skull.

‘Excuse me,’ she said, quietly, smiling when Sasha darted her head up from studying Feyre’s chart, as if she’d forgotten patients could speak.

‘Are you alright? Any discomfort?’

The young women’s immediate firing off of the questions was mildly adorable and made Feyre smile.

‘Nothing to worry about I think, but I have a bit of a headache.’

A bit of, was a slight understatement, she felt like she’d drunk at least seven gin and tonics the previous night.

Even though the tests came back clear, as Thesan had told Feyre when he’d been handed the report from one of the students, the headache was a killer.

‘Of course, I’ll get you on some light pain meds and set up an IV.’

Sasha spoke to Feyre without looking at her, already getting started on setting up what she described. When she crossed the room to open a cabinet in the corner, she spoke softly over her shoulder, ‘This is likely just dehydration from the testing. We’ve been pumping you with fluids for hours and now you’re coming down to the usual levels.’

Feyre nodded. ‘Ok, that makes sense.’

The girl smiled before asking for Feyre’s arm. The latter complied with a sigh, settling into her pillows and suddenly craving a nap.

She blinked, a slow one that turned into resting her eyes for a good minute, and long enough that when she opened them, Sasha had finished with the IV.

She smiled at Feyre’s probably dopey expression, ‘Would you like me to close the blinds?’

Even though it was growing darker already, there was a wall lamp outside her window that was particularly strong.

Feyre breathed out a slight laugh, letting her eyes fall closed, ‘Yes, please.’

Sasha chuckled back and said something else, but the words were lost to the haze of sleep.

***

Rhysand

The sound of fists hitting padded gloves was sharp. Rhysand’s knuckles thudded against the training mitts Cassian held up, sweat already clinging to the base of his neck, his jaw clenched so tight it ached.

‘Again,’ Cassian said, arms lifted, stance braced.

Rhys obeyed. Right hook. Uppercut. Low body shot.

Cassian grunted and stepped back slightly, nodding. ‘You’re breathing like a pissed-off bull. Should I dodge or just let you take the shoulder out this time?’

Rhys ignored him, circling. His fists were already bruising.

They’d been at this for twenty minutes in the back room of the gym - no music, just the soft echo of gloves hitting targets and the scuff of shoes against the floor.

It wasn't the first time Rhys had shown up at the gym unannounced with a darkness to him that begged to be bled out through movement. Cassian didn’t even blink anymore. He just handed him gloves and took up the mitts.

Another combination. Left jab, right hook. Harder this time.

Cassian shook out his arm, the hit ringing up his bones. ‘Alright,’ he said mildly, ‘either I’m getting slow or you’re trying to put a hole through me.’

‘Try ducking faster,’ Rhys replied, shaking some loose hair strands out of his vision.

A beat passed. Then Cassian lowered his arms. ‘You want to talk about it or keep trying to crack my ribs?’

Rhys just looked at him, trying to clear the fog of overwhelmingly loud numbness inside his mind. The silence stretched, until the sweat on his brow slipped into one eye and he wiped it away with the back of his wrist.

Cassian nodded, putting back up his fists without another word. Rhys swallowed, nodded once and got back at it.

They went on for another 20 minutes, Rhys’ thoughts swirling and building until he suddenly dropped his arms and stared at the floor, breathing hard.

‘I can't fix anything,’ he said finally.

Cassian also dropped his arms, sighing once but waiting for Rhys to go on.

He let out a scoff, ‘Not her body. Not the case. Not the way all of you keep looking at me like I should have-’ Rhys cut himself off before he finished the sentence.

He didn’t want to put a wedge between any of them right now, not while things were so fraught. And he knew part of the disappointment he was reading on his friends’ faces was projection. ‘I just needed to hit something.’

Destroy something, so he didn’t destroy himself, was what he left off the admission.

He knew Cassian could hear the words in his mind. Because he was slipping straight back into the mindset that had taken over just under a decade ago.

Cassian exhaled slowly, lowering the mitts all the way. ‘No one's asking you to be indestructible.’

Or to self-destruct, were the unspoken words, which made Rhys’ jaw tick.

‘I’m not trying to be indestructible,’ he said, lowly. Truthfully he wasn’t capable of trying to do anything right now. It was all about mitigating the defence mechanisms that he usually couldn’t control.

Or at least that’s what his grief therapist had been telling him for nearly four years.

 ‘The goal is to keep from falling apart in a firm full of people waiting to see if I do.’

Because as if the bastard somehow knew what had pulled away nearly the entirety of the Blackwell senior staff, Hybern had called Rhys into the firm for an emergency meeting that afternoon.

If he walked in there with all this rage and numb desperation inside of him, he’d put a chair through the wall with an immovable, stony expression.

He’d become his father - a man he’d prefer never to be likened to.

There was a long pause. Then Cassian stepped closer, clapped a heavy, sweat-slicked hand to Rhys’ shoulder.

‘Well, congrats,’ he said dryly. ‘You look like a man one wrong comment away from a lawsuit.’

Rhys barked a laugh before he could stop it. Just once. Brief, tired, but real.

‘Come on, you miserable bastard,’ Cassian said, already moving toward the bench. ‘Hydrate or die.’

Rhys followed, wiping away a rivulet from the back of his neck, still thinking of her heart beating on that monitor. But just a little bit steadier.

***

Feyre

Feyre woke slowly. There was warmth near her legs - someone sitting on the bed - and the soft hum of voices.

She kept her eyes closed, letting the words drift in and out of her mind.

‘…If he’s still hung up on that language, we might need to revisit the earlier draft,’ Mor was saying, her voice taut with tired focus. ‘Vance won’t budge unless we give them something clean.’

Azriel’s reply was low and even, but Feyre could hear the impatience pooling in the pauses.

‘We’ve already bent farther than we should’ve. If Rhys isn’t ready to escalate, we need to tighten the timeline and let the deadline speak for itself.’

Feyre smiled faintly, keeping her breath even. The cadence of them - the soft clash of strategy and restraint - it was oddly soothing. Familiar.

Her team, her people. Still working and orbiting around close by, even as everything else frayed at the edges. Even without him here.

She opened her mouth without opening her eyes, the thought flowing out of her as easy as a breath. ‘The language in Section Four’s still too open-ended. Vance will stall on it if we don’t make it specific.’

Mor yelped. ‘Jesus, Feyre!’

‘Jesus is here? Where?’ Feyre joked, peeling open her eyes, grinning sleepily as she looked around the room. The two of them were sat on chairs either side of her bed, talking over her sleeping form. ‘I’ve been listening for a while,’ she told them with a sheepish smile.

Azriel just smirked faintly. ‘You were sleeping like the dead.’

Mor gave a gasp and a tut as she glared over at him, as Feyre smothered her chuckle, ‘Nice timing on that, Az. That joke won’t be funny, not for at least another year.’

Azriel just gave an amused shrug of his shoulders, face betraying nothing.

‘You,’ she pointed at Feyre, ‘are sneaky.’

‘And you, are loud,’ Feyre countered, rolling her head over to send a smile to the blond.

Azriel stood with his usual shadowy grace. ‘I’ll give you two a minute. I’m going to pick up something. Any requests?’

Feyre didn’t even pause. ‘Dumplings.’ She was pretty sure she’d been dreaming about them.

Azriel nodded once. ‘Steamed or fried?’

‘Steamed,’ she murmured. ‘Please.’

‘You got it,’ he said, already halfway to the door, nodding again when Mor asked for fried.

Once he disappeared, Mor turned back to her. ‘How did the tests go? Do you feel any better?’

Feyre stretched her fingers, testing the ache in her limbs. ‘Thesan said everything is as fine as it can be, but they won’t know until they do the rest tomorrow morning. But I feel a little icky, to be honest. Like my blood is soup.’

Mor smiled. ‘That tracks. I saw him in the hallway earlier, he said you’re stable enough to shower now, if you want.”

Feyre’s eyes widened as she tried to sit up ‘Yes. Please. Oh god, yes.’

A few minutes later, she was in the bathroom. The door, Feyre had realised, was hidden behind a curtain in the corner of the wall behind her head.

She let herself lean against the arm Mor outstretched into the shower as the steam rose around them. Feyre barely registered her own nakedness - it was too much work to care. And it was Mor. Albeit she hadn’t known her long, but in just under 3 months, she was far from a stranger.

Besides, when they had first made their way inside and Feyre had turned and shyly told Mor she’d be fine from there on, Mor had given her a look and murmured, ‘Rhys would hardly be happy with me if I let Cassie’s favourite sitter crack her skull in a shower, would he?’

A shudder from the blonde, ‘And the last person I want to piss off is that little critter.’

When Feyre winced at lifting her arms above her head, Mor’s hands were gentle and practical as she pried the bottle from the associate’s grip and helped her wash - rinsing Feyre’s hair, massaging her scalp like she’d done it a hundred times. Feyre leaned into the touches, too tired to pretend she didn’t need them.

‘Let me know if it’s too hot,’ Mor murmured. Maybe it was the drugs, but Feyre felt her eyes watering.

‘It’s perfect,’ Feyre whispered. And it was. She felt cared for and cherished, like Mor was an older sister who wanted to help in any way she could. So, it should’ve been perfect.

It would’ve been, if another absence wasn’t leaving a hole in her heart. She felt the hollow sensation as if a cold breeze was whistling through a tunnel in her chest. If she breathed too hard, it’d start howling in aeolian tones that would match the longing in her mind.

She didn’t let herself continue dwelling on it, blaming her aching emotions on the drugs and tiredness.

When they were done, Mor helped her into soft pyjamas and tucked her into bed like it was second nature. She set up her laptop beside Feyre’s legs, muttering something about Notting Hill being the only acceptable post-surgery viewing option.

They watched and laughed and as the evening went on, Feyre realized how much she’d needed the comfort of silly dialogue and soft lighting until her chest eased enough to breathe.

By the time the fake wedding scene was playing, the room had dimmed with the evening, the overhead lights turned off. The bedside lamp glowed gold. Feyre sighed, warm and full of something she hadn’t felt in days: peace.

She let her eyes flutter closed, Mor’s fingers brushing gently through her damp hair.

‘Don’t force yourself to stay awake,’ Mor whispered.

‘But dumplings,’ Feyre mumbled, a little slurred.

‘Will be saved,’ Mor said gently. ‘Go to sleep, honey.’

So, Feyre did.

And somewhere in the soft hush of sleep, she imagined the weight of a hand at her waist - steady, certain. Like he’d never left.

***

Rhysand

Rhys stepped into the firm like a storm walking upright.

The front desk assistant - new, young, smart - visibly flinched when she looked up and saw him. She stumbled through a greeting he didn’t acknowledge. He was already moving, his long strides eating up the sleek white flooring, suit jacket slung over his shoulder like a blade. His tie hung loose, his shirt sleeves rolled up past his forearms.

He hadn’t looked this ruffled or tempestuous entering the offices since the day Mor had called him about Feyre.

Before that, it’d been years. During the early days of grief after his mother and sister’s death, he’d stalked out of his apartment – not the townhouse, he hadn’t been able to stay there for a good few years - and into the firm with a perennial snarl poised on his tongue, just like today.

He wasn’t proud of it, but it’d been an ugly, unavoidable part of his recovery.

That afternoon, just like back then, he didn’t look at anyone. Didn’t stop when interns parted like water, didn’t pause when two associates ducked into the kitchenette mid-conversation, falling silent.

He made it to his office without slowing, without looking at anyone. The familiar rhythm of his steps echoed back at him off the expensive floors, muffled but sharp. The glass door to his corner office was already ajar.

Of course it was.

He pushed it open the rest of the way.

And found Hybern stretched out comfortably across his sofa, shoes kicked up on the coffee table like this was his own goddamn living room and not someone else's office. His shirt was open at the collar, gold watch catching the light, and a glass of something amber sat untouched in his hand.

The picture of easy confidence - the kind that only ever came from excessive power and a complete lack of conscience.

‘Well, look who decided to show up to his big boy job,’ Hybern said, smiling faintly, as if Rhysand was late to a dinner party instead of being summoned to an ambushed meeting. He’d always done that, spoken to Rhys as if he were still a child dressed in his father’s suit.

Rhys closed the door behind him and didn’t bother responding. He didn’t sit, either. He stalked across the space and stood by the window, facing outward, hands braced on the sill. The city below was washed in mid-afternoon haze, indistinct and unimportant.

Everything had been that way over the last few days, as if nothing would fully come into focus until Feyre was up and smirking at him again.

‘Profits are down,’ Hybern said casually. ‘Again. For the third quarter in a row. And while we can all agree the market’s been brutal lately, some of us are beginning to wonder if the problem isn’t just the market.’

Rhys didn’t turn around. His silence stretched, because he was mentally running through the list of board members who could be considered in Hybern’s us.

In the reflection of the window, Rhys watched as Hybern took a sip from his glass, studying the office with fake appraisal, entirely at ease. ‘You used to be more involved. Tighter control. Less… delegation.’

He used to be a tyrant, was what Hybern was implying, as if that were something laudable. Rhys’s shoulders rolled back slightly, the only sign he gave to Hybern that he’d heard him.

Hybern went on, tapping the bottom of his glass against the table with a faint clink. ‘You’re letting things slip. You used to know how to keep people in line. Now it’s all handholding and empathy. That’s not how this place was built. Evander understood that.’

His father’s name was the bait, but Rhys refused to bite. Instead, he just turned slowly, keeping his expression blank as he leant back against the windowsill and crossed his arms.

Hybern just grinned. ‘He kept his people in check. He made sure no one forgot who was in charge. He ran this place like a machine. You’ve turned it into a group therapy session.’

Rhys took a step forward, deliberately, but didn’t raise his voice as he spoke.

‘If you came here to compare me to a man who controlled people through fear, you can stop wasting both of our time. I’m not him.’

‘No,’ Hybern said, standing, brushing down his jacket with a lazy hand. ‘Not anymore. That’s the problem.’

Rhys was about to answer - something final, something that might’ve ended with a broken glass or a broken silence - when a knock sounded at the door.

Hybern sent another cruel smile his way, purring, ‘But I’ve brought someone in to fix that.’

He barely had time to process the words, let alone glance to the glass before the door opened and she walked in.

Rhys felt the air in his lungs freeze, cold slow dread flooding his veins, paralysing him.

She looked the same, as if no time had passed. Dark red, sleek, hair swept up into a perfect, composed twist, the same rich red lipstick that used to leave marks he couldn’t scrub off fast enough. Her heels clicked softly against the hardwood floor, and the scent of her perfume reached him before she did - cloying magnolia that overpowered his senses and clung to his mouth like smoke.

It turned his stomach, but he made sure his face didn’t so much as twitch.

Her smile didn’t quite reach her eyes, but she seemed utterly unconcerned with the spike in tension that followed her entrance as she fluttered her eyelashes at him. ‘Rhysand, darling. It’s been too long.’

Don’t fucking call me that, he wanted to growl, but the words died in his throat when she kept sauntering towards him, heels clicking dangerously.

Hybern cleared his throat, as something like amusement played in his eyes. The bastard had known, the whole time, and he still brought her back here.

Still did nothing as she closed in on him, just as she had back then, knowing Rhys was frozen in stone.

‘Amarantha’s consulting with us on the restructuring project.’ Smugness lined Hybern’s words, even if it was tempered by his constant cold, slightly indifferent tone. ‘The board brought her in. She’s already working with a few partners upstairs. I thought she should be looped into this.’

Rhys didn’t look at him. He didn’t look at her, either. Not directly.

Amarantha was now standing in front of his desk, glancing over it like it was a painting she’d once commissioned. ‘You redecorated,’ she said, tone idle. ‘No more mahogany. Very modern. Very... cold.’

Her voice, like her appearance, hadn't changed - still velvet on broken glass. He remembered it in his ear, whispering things he never wanted.

When she moved, her perfume swelled again and struck him like a memory soaked in gasoline.

And all at once, his hands weren’t on the windowsill anymore. They were clutching her wrists, a younger version of himself, barely twenty-one, hollowed out by grief and rage and guilt, too tired to say no and too afraid of what she’d tell his father if he did.

He blinked, and the image vanished. She was still standing there. Calm and smiling, as if his pulse wasn’t trying to punch out of his skin.

Hybern rose finally from the couch, brushing imaginary lint from his slacks. ‘I’ll leave you two to catch up,’ he said.

Rhys didn't move.

Hybern’s footsteps echoed away. The door clicked shut behind him.

Amarantha tilted her head, presumably taking in his slightly gaunt, ruffled appearance. ‘Still haunted, I see.’

Haunted by a different ghost, was what she didn’t know. He was no longer running from the fear of never escaping his reality, but of not being able to preserve it.

Rhysand’s voice came at last, quiet and cold as he shot back, ‘Still pandering, I see.’

Amarantha didn’t let her serpentine smile slip. Instead, she ran a sharp, pointed nail down the length of his desk as she strolled around it. Closer to him. ‘You’ve changed, Rhysand.’

Rhys let a sneer overcome his face as he pushed off the windowsill and made to move towards the door, ‘And you haven’t. Now that we’re done with stating the obvious,’ He reached the glass door and pulled it open, gesturing for her to leave.

Amarantha just crossed her arms and smiled again, cruel and calm. ‘I hear you’ve got yourself a pet.’

She spat the word out, nothing like the faux affection she used to line the word with when she called him that years ago.

Rhys felt something in his chest sink. If she was talking about Feyre, there was nothing stopping Amarantha from shredding whatever peace the two of them had left, one manicured nail at a time.

Apparently, he hadn’t schooled his features well enough, because Amarantha chuckled a saccharine sound. ‘She’d have to be a solid fuck, to have you so worked up-’

‘Get out.’ The rage spiked, not letting her finish her sentence as he growled out the command.

She blinked, slow. Unbothered. But her grin had widened, knowing she’d hit her mark, no doubt. To hell with it, Rhys couldn’t stop her finding out about Feyre anyway, it was better she saw what a misstep messing with the associate would be.

‘This office is company property. You don’t have the authority to remove me, darling.’

That fucking nickname again.

‘Your little pet, however, I for one am well within my right to remove.’ She waved her fingers sensually as if in farewell.

Like hell he’d let that happen.

He let a long pause sit between them, and when he spoke it was soft but vicious. ‘I suggest you be very careful with your threats, Amarantha.’ Her name singed his tongue, but he used the sensation to breathe out words lined with fire and heat.

‘You’ll find I’m not quite so amenable to be preyed on anymore.’

He looked up at her, letting his gaze display the rage simmering under his skin.

‘And I sure as hell won’t be allowing you to prey on anyone else. Now,’ he gave her a pleasant, winning smile that probably appeared wolfish and more than a little feral, ‘I believe I asked you to get. out.’

And finally, finally, Amarantha’s amused eyes flickered with something like wariness. Her smile faltered just slightly, like she’d felt something slither against her spine.

She’d expected to return to the fragile kid she’d exploited, but in his place was a man tired of being used.

She turned, casual as ever, but without another word, left the room in a trail of magnolia. And the second the door closed, Rhysand slumped onto the back of the sofa.

His chest rose and fell once, as he dragged a hand through his hair.

And then the room was empty, silent - save for the low, furious hum of rage that was ancient and dark twisting under his skin.

***

Feyre

Feyre had to stay another five days in the hospital.

Thesan had told her gently the morning after her heavenly shower, after the last set of tests, in that soft, careful tone he’d begun to use when he knew she was going to argue. Although she didn’t, this time, because Thesan had found a slight anomaly in her labs that suggested she’d need monitoring for a little longer.

So Feyre just let out a breath, leaned back against the pillows, and nodded. Her body still felt like it was moving through syrup, and her head throbbed anytime she sat up too fast. So, she stayed.

Unfortunately, the new workweek meant her friends couldn’t lounge in the room with her all day anymore.

She understood, obviously. She wasn’t angry. Just - lonely. Restless. The silence felt different now, heavier without the constant hum of banter or footsteps or warm bodies curled into the too-small visitor chairs.

Emerie still stopped by early in the mornings, usually before the sun had fully risen. She’d sit beside Feyre, soft-voiced and smelling like espresso grounds, chatting if Feyre was awake enough to respond.

If she wasn’t, she’d wake up to a warm paper bag left on her tray, the café’s logo printed across it in a familiar scrawl. Inside, always, was a pastry - flaky or chocolatey or sweet, depending on the day.

She never left a note, but the scent alone was comfort enough. Feyre often smiled before she was even fully conscious.

Mor showed up like clockwork on her lunch breaks, dragging a chair closer to the bed and tossing her handbag onto the floor like she owned the room. Sometimes she brought Cassian, sometimes not.

When he came, he had a bad habit of bodily shoving himself into the bed next to Feyre, despite Mor’s dramatics about ‘contaminating the linens with boy.’

He just grinned and made room. Feyre would lean her head on his shoulder while they watched an episode of whatever trashy reality show Mor was currently obsessed with - something involving far too many bikinis and not nearly enough IQ points.

If Mor got there first and took the spot on the bed, Cassian would dramatically lower himself into the tiny visitor chair like it was a throne made of nails, scowling at the screen and muttering about the show’s idiocy. He never once looked away, though.

And without fail, he’d gasp at the exact same moment as the girls, fists clenched on the armrests, like the fate of the final episode mattered.

Evenings were quieter. Suriel often popped in for the unofficial evening shift, settling into the corner with her sudoku, always somehow managing to look deeply amused without smiling. Azriel brought dinner every single night without fail - a quiet entrance, two takeout bags, and a short nod before setting everything down and pulling a chair close.

He never said much, but he didn’t need to. He’d wait until Suriel had finished at least half of her meal, then reach out to briefly pat Feyre’s head, ruffling her hair like a big brother who pretended not to care.

She’d always shoot him a look, lips twitching, and he’d give her that expressionless, deadly stare that somehow still translated to, don’t even start with the teasing. Then he’d vanish, always off to finish more work, always silent.

But Rhys… Rhys never came.

Not once, after that first night.

He didn’t crawl into bed beside her again, didn’t slide onto the mattress like it was second nature, like he belonged there. He hadn’t even left a note.

She hadn’t expected him to come, not really. But that didn’t stop her from reaching out most nights in a half-asleep haze, her hand patting along the cold sheets beside her.

She’d always blink up at the dark ceiling afterward, some distant sound from the hallway echoing like a reminder that she was alone. That he hadn’t stayed.

A few mornings after the night he’d visited, she’d found a small plate on her tray - two oat biscuits, delicate and golden. No note. No explanation.

But when she bit into one, the taste was unmistakable.

The exact same crumbly, slightly-too-dry brand that Rhys kept in a tin in his kitchen.

He’d been there but hadn’t stayed. She tried to let that be enough, she did.

But she was tired, bored, and endlessly restless. The hours stretched endlessly between visits, and she hated how quickly she’d memorized the pattern of the room’s ceiling tiles.

She’d asked Mor - asked all of them - for something to do, something on the merger, even just a stack of briefing notes. Every single one of them had told her to shut up and take the rest while she could.

Suriel had told her to be glad she didn’t have to deal with military operation that Devlon had started in the bullpen, under Hybern’s watchful, yet invisible gaze.

Still, the thought of the hours she wasn’t clocking made her stomach twist. The hospital bill looming at the end of it all weighed heavier than the IV drip strapped to her arm. She was pretty sure she had enough overtime banked to cover her father’s treatment – the one she’d received a letter of reminder for. It would wipe out her savings, sure, and she’d be living on instant noodles for the foreseeable future.

Her own care? That was a different question entirely.

But she tried not to think about that. Tried not to think about anything at all, really. Not her father, not the firm, not her absent sisters and definitely not Rhys.

But as if the universe enjoyed throwing tests at her, Nesta showed up on Thursday – just a day before Thesan had estimated Feyre could leave – and blew her plan for mental peace to smithereens.

Her sister walked in like she’d been summoned - heels tapping against the tile, black coat folded over one arm, severe ponytail in place and eyeliner winged like a blade. Feyre looked up from the hospital bed, fingers freezing where she was rearranging her covers.

For a moment, neither of them said anything.

Then Nesta sighed, crossed her arms, and muttered, ‘You look like shit.’

Feyre snorted, resting her head back against the pillows. ‘Nice to see you too.’

Still, there was a kind of tentative truce between them as Nesta sat - not in the chair, but on the window ledge. Arms crossed, eyes cool, but she was present, at least.

It was quiet for a few moments, and Feyre let it be.

Nesta stared out the window. ‘The doctor said it’s your heart.’

Feyre shifted slightly. ‘Did he explain the issue?’

‘No,’ Nesta said, her tone cool but clipped. ‘He said it wasn’t my place to know more unless you told me.’

Feyre sighed, closed her eyes for a beat. She tried to push down the embarrassment at the staff probably hearing about their screaming match last time Nesta had been in the hospital, and putting two together about their strenuous relationship.

‘It’s chronic. Something with my valves and-’ she breathed deeply once, ‘It’s hereditary. I’m on meds now, and currently under excessive monitoring.’ She gestured to the various machines strapped to her.

Nesta’s eyes flicked to her. ‘So it’s serious.’

‘It’s manageable,’ Feyre said.

Nesta scoffed. ‘Manageable until it kills you?’

Feyre’s jaw clenched at the unaffected way she spoke the words. As if anything about this situation was laughable. ‘That’s dramatic, even for you.’

Nesta didn’t rise to it. Just stared down her nose at Feyre, as if she were an inconvenience. ‘You should’ve told us sooner.’

From anyone else, the words might have sounded worried. But Feyre knew Nesta was only concerned with getting rid of uncomfortable feelings like guilt. ‘I didn’t know sooner.’

A silence settled between them again, but it was sharper now. Brittle.

God, this should’ve gone so much better. Feyre cleared her throat. ‘You should get tested.’

A raised eyebrow preceded her sister’s question, ‘What?’

‘For the same condition. If it’s hereditary - if it came from Dad - you and Elain could have it, too.’

Nesta blinked, and for the first time, something flickered beneath her icy exterior. ‘I don’t need to be tested’

‘Yes,’ Feyre said, voice firmer now, ‘you do.’

‘I feel fine’

‘So did I.’

Nesta’s mouth opened, but no words came out. She stared at Feyre like the concept of vulnerability made her skin itch. There was something else behind her eyes though, something that Feyre couldn’t translate.

As if her sister had more to say but didn’t know how.

‘It’s not weakness,’ Feyre said, gentler now. ‘It’s precaution.’

‘I told you; I don’t need to be tested.’ Nesta’s voice was hard as she crossed her arms.

Feyre let out a huff and threw up her hands, ‘Why are you being so stubborn about this? Just because I’m the one telling you - is that it? Your pride?’

Nesta laughed - cold, sharp. ‘You always think you know what’s best for everyone, don’t you?’

Feyre narrowed her eyes. ‘I’m trying to help you.’

Nesta laughed again and sneered. ‘You’re trying to control me.’

Feyre blinked, taken aback. ‘Is that what you really think?’

Nesta stood up from the ledge, arms tight across her chest. ‘You’ve been like this since Mom died. Always the one who kept it together, always acting like the rest of us were broken toys while you were busy being the perfect daughter. The perfect survivor.’

Feyre’s face went still. Something was rushing in her ears, like a churning river, muffling the world around her. ‘Are you serious?’

Nesta stepped closer to the bed. ‘You act like you’re better than us. Like Elain was too soft and I was too angry, and only you found the correct way to suffer.”

Her pulse spiked in anger, the monitor beeping loudly behind her. ‘I never said that, and you know it.’

‘You didn’t have to.’ Nesta’s voice was rising now. ‘You left. You went off and hid behind your books, building your little life in the city while we stayed behind and cleaned up the mess. You disappeared and then had the audacity to act like you were doing us a favour by sending money once a month.’

Feyre sat up straighter, ignoring the ache in her chest, pulse picking up further. ‘You think I had it easy? I was barely keeping it together, Nesta. I worked sixty-hour weeks and ate instant noodles and pretended I wasn’t terrified every time I saw a letter from the hospital.’

‘You still got to leave,’ Nesta hissed. ‘You got to run. I had to stay. I had to take care of Elain. I had to hold everything else together while you played martyr in the city. But then she left too, and where was I? Stuck in that fucking house!’

‘You didn’t have to. You chose to push me away. You shut me out, Nesta - you always do.’

‘Because you made it clear you didn’t need me!’

They stared at each other. The hospital room, white and sterile and filled with low humming machines and Feyre’s screaming heart monitor, suddenly felt too small.

Feyre’s voice was low when she spoke again, both from exhaustion and vulnerability. ‘I needed you. I just didn’t know how to ask.”

Something in Nesta’s face cracked - barely. A flash of something softer, something wounded.

Feyre’s mouth opened, but before she could explain further, the door swung open again - Mor and Cassian stepping in mid-laugh, holding takeout for their daily lunch.

Mor’s eyes landed on Nesta instantly, her mouth flattening. Cassian’s head whipped to the beeping monitor behind Feyre, gaze hardening.

‘Perfect,’ Nesta muttered under her breath, rising to her feet.

Mor’s smile turned to steel as she laughed out a scoff, concerned eyes now finding the source of the fast-paced beeping, hardening just like Cassian’s. ‘Yeah, you’re leaving. Right now.’

Nesta raised an eyebrow. ‘Think you can tell me what to do, Barbie? That’s adorable.’

‘Do not-’ Mor snarled, ‘-make me walk you out of here myself.’

She stalked across the room to stand in front of Feyre’s sister, and crossed her arms, red nails flicking against her bicep.

‘Nice claws,’ Nesta replied, dry as sand.

Cassian crossed to the bed and dropped the bags on the tray. He looked between them, amused, then cocked a brow at Feyre. ‘Who’s the viper?’

She knew he was trying to distract her, to diffuse the tension and calm her heartrate. Feyre pinched the bridge of her nose. ‘My sister.’

Nesta turned to Feyre, not even bothering to look at Cassian. ‘And who’s the brute?’

Cassian grinned. ‘The brute has a name.’

Feyre sighed, her limbs heavy, her body aching with exhaustion, her pulse slowing just enough to stop the machines alarm.

But despite that, the room had started spinning again, and all she wanted was to sleep - not referee.

Mor moved to stand in front of the bed, arms crossed, blocking Nesta’s view.

‘Elain is going to call you,’ Nesta snapped at Feyre without looking around her blonde sentry. ‘She said she misses us, and wants to get together. I suggest you decide whether you can be bothered to pick up the phone. Or you can just ignore it, like you’ve ignored us for months in your perfect little city.’

‘That’s enough,’ Mor said coldly, grabbing Nesta’s arm.

Nesta yanked herself free, stepping in close, teeth bared. ‘Touch me again and see what happens.’

‘Try it,’ Mor snarled back, stepping forward.

Cassian remained behind the latter, arms folded, grin lazy as he watched the showdown. ‘I’d recommend leaving before she gets the talons out,’ he informed Nesta, waggling his fingers and gesturing to Mor’s red manicured nails.

Nesta scoffed, cast a final glare over her shoulder, and swept from the room with a sharp flick of her ponytail.

Tense silence followed.

Mor exhaled hard and returned to Feyre’s side, eyes scanning the machines and deeming it no longer an emergency. ‘Sorry for getting worked up.’

Feyre shook her head. ‘You’re fine, I didn’t have the energy to argue with her anyway.’

Mor huffed. ‘I don’t like how she treats you.’

Feyre gave a tired smile. ‘I’m used to it. It’s how she’s always been.’

Cassian snorted. ‘I doubt it. No one’s born that vicious.’ He glanced at the closed door, something flickering behind his eyes. ‘They’re only as sharp as the blade that’s honed them.’

Feyre wasn’t sure what blade had honed Nesta.

It couldn’t have been their childhood - not the way she remembered it. Feyre didn’t snap and claw at everyone who tried to love her. Didn’t keep score like affection was a debt no one had paid.

She sighed again. ‘Maybe.’

Cassian and Mor exchanged a glance, before Mor pulled the laptop onto the bed. ‘Next episode?’

Feyre nodded as the opening theme played, and outside the window, the sun dipped low. The sky outside faded to the colour of the invisible bruises left on both sister’s pride.

 Feyre closed her eyes, too tired to wonder who had hurt who more.

***

That night, Feyre dreamed of her home. Of her childhood – except, not.

Sleep came in shivering fits, fractured and restless, until her dreams turned sharp and real - so real that the very air in her lungs seemed to thicken with memory.

The floor beneath her feet was old and wooden, her childhood home cloaked in the same bitter darkness it had worn for years after her mother’s death.

She was there again, standing just inside the threshold, the stale scent of dust and damp rot curling up her nose as the floorboards creaked ominously under her bare feet. The hallway yawned before her, empty, and still she felt the air pressing in around her, heavy with silence.

A sound split that silence - wet and wheezing.

Like choking.

Her pulse kicked, feet moving in that dreamlike impulsivity.

Because she knew that sound.

Without hesitation, Feyre began climbing the stairs two at a time, her fingers grasping at the railing as her breath grew shallow, as that sound - gagging and frantic - grew louder. By the time she reached the top, she was running.

Her hand slammed into the door to her father's room, heart thundering in her ears, ready to find him collapsed, suffocating, dying. But the door creaked open and there he was - just... sitting.

Sitting.

Just like he had after her mother died. The same chair by the fireplace, the same blank, unreachable stare trained on the fire like it held the answers to a life he’d stopped participating in.

Her father didn’t move, didn’t blink. It was as if she wasn’t even there. Feyre’s lips parted to call to him, to ask if he was alright - but before she could speak, the choking began again.

Feyre frowned at the catatonic expression on her father’s face, before her head swung around until she found the source of the sound.

Her body lunged towards the side of the bed, but her breath caught. She rounded the edge of the mattress, dread curdling inside her like spoiled milk. And there - curled on the floor, knees to chest, tiny hands clawing at her own throat – was a child.

Mousy brown hair, spindly too-thin limbs.

Herself. But smaller and so much younger. As if time had stopped, Feyre took in the length of her hair, the structure of her face – she couldn’t be more than fourteen.

Her limbs were gangly from hunger, cheeks hollow, eyes wide in terror as she gasped and gurgled on nothing at all. Invisible hands squeezed the child’s throat, even while her own skinny fingers raked desperately at the skin until rivulets of blood trickled in dark lines down her neck.

Her lips bloomed purple. Her body trembled. A hoarse sob emerged from Feyre’s dream-self at the sight, but her feet wouldn’t fucking move.

Stuck – she was stuck like her bones were rooted into the house’s foundations.

She checked, expecting to see that they’d been cemented to the floor, but the floor was a blur, her brain unable to fill in the blanks of the memory.

She snapped her head up and strained forward when the child’s whimpering reached her again, every muscle in her body taut with the instinct to move, to save that child, to save herself, but she couldn’t even lift her legs.

‘Father!’ she shouted, her voice raw. ‘Do something!’

But he didn’t move, didn’t even turn. His shoulders slumped lower, curling inward, still staring at the fire.

Her voice cracked, splintering like glass. ‘Please! She’s going to die!’

She sounded like she did when she was seventeen. That same hoarse pitch, that same unhealed rage laced through her scream.

But the only answer was the dying whimper from the child version of herself, who was now slumping sideways, her hands falling limply from her throat, crimson streaking her neck like paint. Her lips parted one last time in a silent scream before her head lolled back against the wall.

Dead.

The dream warped, and then came another sound - a shhhk, deliberate and metallic.

Feyre’s head whipped toward the doorway.

Nesta.

A younger Nesta, no older than nineteen. Hollow-eyed, sleepless shadows bruising her sharp cheekbones, lips twisted in a sneer that never quite reached her eyes.

She stood there motionless, a knife in one hand and a smaller blade in the other, dragging the edge across the larger one in a slow, rhythmic motion. Watching and smiling.

There was something grotesque about the calmness on her face.

Feyre opened her mouth to scream, to beg Nesta to help. But before she could say a word, her sister turned and walked away, disappearing into the hallway with no more urgency than if she were going to fetch a glass of water.

Feyre’s scream never came. Her chest caved inward, breath locked deep in her lungs. Her eyes flicked back to the lifeless body of her fourteen-year-old self, slumped and unmoving. And her father, still in the chair, still unmoved.

The only sound now was the crackle of the fire before she woke.

With a strangled sob, Feyre bolted upright in the sterile bed of the hospital, sweat slicking her skin despite the chill in the air.

She did not sleep again that night.

Nor the one after.

Something in her had cracked - and rage filled the hollow spaces that nightmare had left behind. Rage, not fear. Rage so loud it made her hands shake and her skin buzz, unable to rest. Unwilling to be comforted.

For the first time in what felt like years, Feyre was angry. Truly, unrelentingly angry. At her father, for never turning and looking at her. At Nesta, for watching and smiling while she suffered.

But also, at herself, for still needing something from them she never got.

That fury simmered beneath her skin like a storm-cloud of bees as the final check-up appointments were carried out on Friday evening.

Suriel had dropped in straight from the firm, looking tired and strung out, but giving Feyre a rare hug when she’d seen the matching bags under her eyes.

Thesan had run through all her labs and whatever notes had been added to her chart, and nodded approvingly, telling her that physically she was healed enough to be discharged, but that she’d need someone with her for at least a week, just to be sure.

Before Feyre could protest, Suriel raised her hand casually and chirped, ‘Got that covered, doc. Week-long sleepover, here we come.’

Suriel winked at her and Feyre tried - gods, she tried - to smile. But her stomach twisted with disappointment.

She wouldn’t be staying at the townhouse.

Of course she wouldn’t. Not now. Not with Hybern watching. She scolded herself for even daring to hope for it, for imagining curling into the soft bed she called hers at Rhys’, or sinking into the corner of the sofa next to Cassie, falling asleep bathed in the warm orange glow of the lamps.

No, those days were over. Or, at the very least, put on hold until Hybern was no longer a threat. And it made her angrier still.

Suriel dutifully helped Feyre pack all of her things into a couple of bags, holding out some loose trousers that Feyre climbed into unsteadily, and shoving a big sweatshirt over her head with a smirk.

They met Mor and Azriel in the hallway, both having found a message from Suriel to say that this was the ‘Feyre Freedom Day’ and came as soon as they could.

When the hospital doors finally came into view in front of her, Suriel’s hand wrapped around her bicep as she walked quite a bit like Cassian’s namesake for her, she couldn't help but shudder at the cold breeze that blew through.

After a slow but steady walk across the front pavement, Suriel helped her climb into the passenger seat of Blitz’s car without needing to be told and murmured her address to the driver before shutting the door softly.

Feyre numbly watched in the wing mirror as Suriel walked to meet Az and Mor at the car behind, Azriel’s driver if Feyre’s memory was correct. She groaned as she shifted, her body sluggish with exhaustion, but her soul humming with that unspent ache, that restless, bitter kind of longing.

Blitz didn’t say anything at first - just started the engine, checked the mirrors, and, as he always did, reached for the worn plastic case in the console. The soft swell of strings filled the car as his favourite classical CD spun to life, the music steadying and familiar.

As they pulled away from the hospital, he glanced over at her. ‘Glad to see you up and out of there, Miss Archeron.’

Feyre let out a tired breath. ‘Thank you, Blitz.’

They drove a few blocks in companionable quiet before she asked, ‘How’s Tommy?’

Blitz’s mouth curved faintly. ‘Just had his birthday party last weekend.’

Her head lolled to the side so she could see his profile. ‘Was it a hit?’ she asked, a sleepy smile tugging at her lips.

That smile deepened his. ‘There was a bouncy castle. And let’s just say the ‘no cake on the castle’ rule was thoroughly ignored.’

Feyre’s laugh came softer than she intended, but it was real. ‘So yes, then.’

His eyes flicked to hers, still smiling before returning to the road.

Another beat passed before she inhaled sharply and asked, tentatively, ‘Do you know…’

Her voice trailed off before she could finish. She didn’t say his name. The question felt foolish on her tongue, like a wish she wasn’t sure she was allowed to make.

Of course, he couldn’t be here. It had been silly of her to hope he’d come to meet her.

But what else was he doing?

Working, probably.

But it was nearly eight pm on a Friday.

Feyre’s mind was swirling with possibilities and insecurities. She managed to stay quiet for a whole minute before she forced the question out, ‘Do you know where Rhys is tonight?’

Blitz didn’t answer.

But from the back seat, a familiar voice did.

‘I believe he might.’

Her breath caught in her throat as her head snapped toward the rearview mirror.

Dark eyes in the shadows.

The exact shade that shimmered with mirth and onyx in her memory.

Her heart kicked, stumbling once, then racing ahead as her eyes locked with the unmistakable twinkle staring back at her.

She spun around in her seat, and there he was.

Rhys.

Smirking like the devil had told him a secret, his eyes never leaving her face. He looked incredibly tired, and slightly dishevelled but – her breath hitched - beautiful.

Feyre’s mouth parted, a thousand words trying to come out at once, but none made it past her lips.

Without looking away from her, Rhys said, voice low and fond, ‘Blitz, pull over, please.’

And Blitz - smiling faintly now, like he’d known all along - did just that.

The car rolled to a gentle stop, but Feyre was already unbuckling, already reaching for the handle.

The car swerved gently to the shoulder and stopped. Feyre was out of the car before the tires had even stilled. She barely noticed Mor and Azriel stepping out of their own car behind them, too focused on the way the back door was opened from the inside by a strong, tanned hand.

For a long second she didn’t breathe, simply taking in how Rhys was leaned forward, one hand pushing the door open, the other reaching out to her, waiting.

And she didn’t hesitate.

Feyre threw herself into the car, into his arms, collapsing onto him with a sob as her breaths came again.

Rhys let out a soft oomph but didn’t let go. His arms curled around her lower back, steady and strong, and she buried her face in his chest like it was the only safe place left in the world.

The door was still open. Blitz could see them. So could anyone, really.

But she didn’t care.

He was here.