Chapter Text
"Rhys! How many boxes of towels do you have?” I yelled into the other room where my fiancée was cleaning. In my arms was yet another box of Rhysand's stuff. This one was full of monogrammed towels.
Seriously - who under the age of 60 monogrammed towels? As much as I loved Rhys, he had a lot of old-man tendencies.
Moving in with the love of my life was thrilling, but also...an adventure, to say the least. Honestly, I was surprised we had waited this long to do it. We were a month into our engagement, and half of our stuff was already at the other's place anyways.
I knew that Rhys, who had recently cut himself off from his family's money, claiming he wanted nothing to do with them anymore, was regretting the loss of his extravagant suite downtown. But I was getting a bargain on my rent, and there was still plenty of space for the two of us.
At least, that's what I had thought. Rhys had a ridiculous amount of stuff. It was all neatly organized into labeled boxes and compartments.
Unfortunately for him, my apartment could be perceived as....well, an absolute mess.
Being a painter who lived alone, I rarely had houseguests besides the close friends I had long ago given up cleaning the house for to impress. The last in-depth cleaning I had done occurred after a pint of emerald paint spilled on the tile floor of the kitchen. That had been six months ago. As a result, clothes were strewn on all over the floor, the garbage was close to overflowing, and what Rhys described as a “solid inch of dust” coated half the countertop. The best that could be said about the place was that the dishes were all clean and my laundry was clean. Even if it wasn't put away.
“I have four boxes of towels, Feyre darling," Rhys replied, answering my question. "And it’s a good thing I do because I’m beginning to think you dry all your dishes with your shirts. Almost every article of clothing in this basket seems to have some type of stain on it.”
“Prick.” I muttered under my breath halfheartedly and went back to putting things away in the kitchen."I'd like to see you keep all of your clothes clean if you painted for a living!"
In addition to the fact that he was much more organized than I was, it didn’t help that almost all of his things were shiny, new, and spotless. It wasn't that Rhys tried to flaunt his wealth....it was just how he had been raised. And how I had most decidedly not been. I was painfully aware that, while my landlady was giving me a bargain on my apartment, it still wasn't as nice as Rhys had grown up with. But for now, we were agreeing to split the rent, and I hated to admit that I couldn't afford it at his place. This apartment would be a stepping stone for us.
“I have to say if I knew the full extent of how messy you really were I’m not sure I would’ve agreed to move in with you!” Rhys called back.
"Oh no, you didn't finally open the closet at the end of the hall, did you?" I called back in mock horror.
"Now I'm concerned - you told me that was just storage." He joked.
I rolled my eyes, stood up, and looked around. My – no, our apartment was starting to look alright, despite clearly clashing decorating themes.
Thoughtlessly, I glanced at the clock. “I’m just going to heat some leftover pasta for dinner, alright?”
I took his faint “Mm-hmm” as agreement and pulled the noodles out of the fridge. Out of habit, I tried to pull the nonexistent handle on the microwave – and promptly groaned. I had bought my microwave at a yard sale a few years back, but judging by the design and the speed at which it heated things, it was probably thirty years old. Even so, it worked just fine for me, but much to my chagrin Rhys had insisted we use his shiny new one. Unfortunately, with a button instead of a handle and an unnecessary plethora of power settings, it appeared a complete mystery to me.
Pressing in a few likely buttons I pressed start and walked away, hoping for the best when - “BEEEP. BEEEEPPP BEEEPP.”
The loudest, most high-pitched sound I had ever heard emitted from a microwave pierced the air. I spun back around to see lights flashing from it.
“Feyre? What’s going on?” I heard Rhys’s concerned voice from down the hall.
“It's fine, everything is fine! I have it all under control!” Refusing to be beaten by a kitchen appliance, I rushed across the room. Quickly, I smashed the cancel button and was greeted with silence as the beeping and flashing stopped – “BEEEPPP. BEEEPPP BEEEPP.”
And instantly started up again, twice as high pitched and loud as before.
Okay, maybe I was about to be beaten by a kitchen appliance.
"Technology hates me! Oh my God, Rhys! I killed the microwave!" I yelled.
Rhysand came running in skidded to a halt in front of the microwave. He took one look at it, pressed a single button, and instantly – the microwave finally shut up.
“Why the hell did it do that?” I demanded.
Frowning, Rhys opened the door and promptly rolled his violet eyes, brandishing a fork that I had absentmindedly left in with the food after stirring it up. "Trying to start a house fire already?”
“Maybe I wouldn’t have been so distracted if I hadn’t been trying to figure out how to work this…this ridiculous contraption!” I replied pointedly. “Besides, I’ve put a fork in my old microwave at least three times before. Don’t tell me you haven’t ever either.”
I cocked an eyebrow, watching Rhys bite his bottom lip as he tried to hold in a laugh, and completely failed, letting out a roar of laughter. “Fine, Feyre Darling, you win. We can use your absolutely horrible microwave. But if you burn this building down, don’t blame me.”
I leaned over to kiss him. “How exciting would our lives be if they didn’t include some form of daily peril?”
The corner of his mouth quirked up. “Should I be surprised you haven’t made me sign a waiver yet?”
I laughed, stepping away to go retrieve my beloved microwave from the trash.