Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“Three, two, one—“

The giggle that left Feyre’s mouth enveloped their whole house immediately—making a fond and loving smile stretch Rhys’s lips.

He took another step closer to the room her voice was coming from, then chuckled when a yelp was heard, followed by a shriek, and finally—a burst of laughter so loud his cheeks were hurting from all the smiling he was doing.

He’d shared his life with her for a long time now—almost ten years. He could never get enough of her laugh.

“What’s going on here?”

Feyre turned to him at the sound of his voice, her eyes glinting with mischief and her smile wide on her lips. She was sitting cross-legged on the floor, her face trying to sober up, but her eyes amused and teasing. She straightened a little the moment he came into view.

“Nothing,” she answered, perhaps a little too quickly to be casual. “Absolutely nothing.”

“Mh,” Rhys took a step forward in the room, noting how Feyre continued to shift on her spot on the floor. “Funny,” he mused, “I could have sworn I heard you laughing.”

Another step closer to her. Feyre straightened again, her neck rising as much as it could, her chin lifting as in defiance.

“Nope.”

Her smile was matching his, with how wide it was. Rhys took another step closer.

“My bad.”

Another step.

And then—he surged forward, rounding her only to catch the little boy hiding at her back and caging him in through a loud shriek of laughter.

“Ah-ah,” Rhys exclaimed triumphantly, his head finding the crook of his son’s neck and blowing a playful raspberry there—only earning him yet another wave of giggles. “I knew I’d heard something.”

Nyx fussed in his arms, laughter more frantic than ever, and his hands wrapped around Rhys’s arms where he was still holding him.

“Stop, Daddy,” Nyx giggled. “Stop.”

Despite Nyx’s obvious amusement, Rhys did, slowly releasing his hold around his son. Nyx didn’t pull away, though, even as he sobered up. Instead, he turned around in Rhys’s arms until he was facing him, smiling in that way Feyre always claimed was a perfect replica of Rhys’s smile.

Rhys settled down on the floor, just beside Feyre.

“I’ve missed you, Buddy,” he told his son, ruffling his hair and observing every inch of him that had changed since he’d last seen him two days ago. Nyx sat down on his lap, leaning against his chest, and Rhys took the opportunity to kiss the top of his head.

“We’ve missed you, too,” came Feyre’s voice beside him, at the exact same moment as Rhys snaked an arm around her. She shifted a little closer, planting a kiss on his lips that made his eyes flutter closed.

This was home.

“What were you playing at?”

Feyre huffed against him, an amused little sound that made him want to laugh with her immediately.

“Guess.”

Her tone was almost bored—almost, if not for the fondness it held, too.

Before Rhys could guess, though, Nyx straightened from that spot on his lap, a loud gasp leaving him as if he’d only just remembered they’d stopped playing.

“Ship!” He almost yelled, his eyes round and pupils blown in excitement. Nyx turned to Feyre then, and repeated, “Ship!”

“Right,” Feyre smiled, brushing a hand over their son’s face to keep his hair from falling in his eyes. “We forgot to launch the ship, huh?”

Nyx nodded excitedly, and even Rhys’s arm around his waist, this time, wasn't enough to keep him still. He climbed off, running to one side of the room where his whole collection of toys was scattered around, and crouched down to fumble with a few—looking for that ship toy he never got bored of playing with.

“You have to stop making our son as obsessed with Space as you are, Feyre darling,” Rhys teased.

Feyre rolled her eyes at him, then stuck her tongue out.

“Like you’re not the one to blame for all those space toys he has.”

Rhys chuckled, drawing her a little closer.

“Had to tell him what his Mama’s doing when she’s not around, with how in love with her he is.” The fond snort that left Feyre was lost to the noise Nyx made as he kept fumbling with his toys. “Which actually reminds me—“ Rhys pulled away, already getting up as he announced, “I got something from you, Buddy.”

Nyx slowly turned to him, arms already full of toys. He blinked at him, eyes flickering between the toys in his hands and his dad, as if unable to decide what was the most interesting thing, to him. The sight made Rhys chuckle.

“I’ll be right back,” he reassured him. “You can launch your ship with Mama.”

Feyre snorted when Rhys exited the room, and he heard their voices following him down to the living room (Mama! Ship!), as he opened his suitcase on the floor (Ready, Nyxie?), as he reached for the item he’d wrapped very carefully (Three, two, one…), and finally, as he came back in the room with them (Launch!)

Nyx’s face was very serious as he mimicked the sound of an explosion, his arm rising and rising and rising up to bring the toy ship he was holding as high as he could.

“Launching complete, Captain Nyxie,” Feyre announced with a grin. “Well done.”

Nyx was still looking up, though, paying her no mind. His head was tilted upwards, eyes trained on the ceiling, and observing every little detail there.

The ceiling Feyre had made a close replica of the one they’d painted together when they were kids.

Nyx had always loved it—and perhaps it was no wonder, considering how obsessed Feyre was with it as well.

As he stood there, Rhys couldn’t erase his smile. And when Feyre turned to him, Nyx still oblivious to both of them, the happy look they shared was the definition of pure.

Rhys took a couple of steps in the room, sitting down beside her once more, but made sure not to make too much noise and not to disturb Nyx in his observation of the space painting he was still staring at.

That is, until the two-year-old moved, turning to both of them as if he’d finally blinked out of his reverie.

“Ship?”

Both Feyre and Rhys giggled.

“Want to launch your ship again, Buddy?” Rhys asked amusedly. “Or do you want your surprise?”

Nyx seemed to hesitate at that, his head slowly cocking to the side as he thought about his choice. Eventually, he claimed,

“Surprise.”

Rhys let the easy grin stretch his lips.

“Good choice,” he nodded slowly, reaching for the wrapped package on his lap. “I know you’ll love it.”

Rhys handed him the gift, but instead of taking it, Nyx stepped closer and sat down on his lap without hesitation, using both of Rhys’s arms for balance. Rhys used the opportunity to plant another kiss on the top of his son’s head.

With gentle movements, Nyx started shredding the wrapping paper into pieces to slowly reveal the box inside—first revealing a white corner, then a blue lettering, and then finally, a transparent material that gave him a perfect view of what was inside.

Nyx’s gasp was so loud it echoed all around them in the room. His head snapped up to Feyre, searching her face as if she’d have the answer to the questions in his eyes.

“Mama!” Nyx exclaimed, his head turning back and forth between her and the box still in Rhys’s hand. “Mama!”

Feyre huffed a laugh, “What?” she asked, scooting a little closer. “What is—”

“Mama!”

“Oh.”

“Yeah, Buddy,” Rhys confirmed with the widest smile on his lips, slowly straightening the box so he could hold it upright. “It’s Mama. It’s a doll of Mama.”

And indeed, in the delicate package stood a tiny Barbie-like version of Feyre—with the space suit and the helmet and everything.

When he stumbled upon it in the store, Rhys had even noticed the small freckles on her face, her braided hair under the helmet and the blue-grey painted eyes.

Nyx was already reaching for the box—ready to destroy the package so he could get his hands on the doll inside—so Rhys carefully helped him open it, his eyes flickering to Feyre as he did.

“Did you know?” he asked her gently, his smile still dancing on his lips as he reached for the doll, freeing it from the plastic box. “That they were doing this?”

“I—” Feyre huffed, still a little dumbstruck. Rhys guessed her answer even before she shook her head. “No. I had no idea.”

He didn’t even have the time to look at the doll once it was out of the box before Nyx grabbed it, holding it in his little hands and observing it carefully.

“The company told me they were preparing a big promotional campaign for Mission Starfall’s tenth-year anniversary,” Feyre continued quietly, “Had me sign a bunch of things I didn’t exactly read thoroughly.”

Rhys chuckled at how typical of her this was.

“But I—”

“Mama!” Nyx called again, turning fully to Feyre, this time, and holding the doll close to her face. “Mama ‘tis you.”

“Yeah, Baby,” she half-chuckled, the sound bearing more emotion than she really wanted to show. “That’s me.”

Nyx grinned at her, the smile so fucking happy Feyre and Rhys both had to match it.

“You have a Barbie doll in your name, love,” Rhys voiced, simply because he knew she might still need to process. Her eyes snapped up to his, her head slowly nodding in agreement. “Because you are one hell of an Astronaut.”

“You stole Nyx’s doll?” Feyre snorted later that night, when Rhys stepped out of the bathroom adjacent to their room to finally join her in bed. She was holding the doll in her hands—the one he’d placed on his bedside table.

“No,” Rhys chuckled, opening his drawer to grab a clean shirt. “I got one for myself.”

“You—” Feyre trailed off in a cackle, “You what?”

Rhys chuckled at her, finally turning to her as he slid on his shirt—an old university one he was surprised to see in his drawer, because he knew Feyre loved it so much. “What?”

“You bought yourself a doll?”

The couple of steps he took toward the bed were slow and calculated—as much as the smile stretching his lips.

“I did, Feyre darling,” he confirmed. “I bought myself a doll of my wife, because I knew the minute I’d gift it to my son, I’d never see it ever again. Got a problem with that?”

All trace of amusement and laughter evaporated from her features at his words—instead leaving place only to pure and unaltered love. Rhys grinned triumphantly.

“And I may or may not have ordered a couple more, just in case we ever lose those.”

He rounded the bed to slide under the covers beside her, missing her eye roll. It’s not like he needed to see it, though—he already knew she was rolling her eyes at him.

By the time he was next to her, Feyre was leaning her head against the headboard and observing him with nothing more than pure adoration on her features.

Rhys cocked an eyebrow at her.

“Yes?”

“Nothing,” she mused, the smile still so warm on her lips.

He knew better, though. For there was this look on her face, and this intensity in her eyes. Rhys shifted a little closer, lifted a hand to her face, and noticed how her eyes tracked the movement—at least until he was able to trace the smile playing on her lips with his thumb.

And he murmured—almost an accusation,

“Liar.”

The small huff of air that left Feyre was disbelieving and amused—but oh so quiet, too.

She nibbled on her lower lip, searched his face for maybe three beats of their hearts before she admitted,

“I’ve just missed you. A lot.” She paused, but only for a second before she added, “We both did.”

Rhys felt overwhelmed by a mixture of deep love and guilt at that—the kind he’d only ever started to feel ever since they’d become parents.

Ever since every single choice they both made meant something more.

“I know it’s dumb,” Feyre rushed to add, “I know you were only gone for two days, and I know we’ve both done so, so much worse.”

They had—the missions Feyre had embarked on were numerous, and they’d learned to live this weird-scheduled life together, over the years. They’d learned to accommodate their lives around both their jobs, had learned to deal with it, and to make the most of the time they had together.

It had all been very different since Nyx had been born, though.

“And yet I’ve missed you, too,” Rhys agreed quietly. “And it might have only been two days, but I kinda feel like I’ve missed out on so much.”

Probably just to make the saddened look on his face disappear, Feyre teased,

“Only a bad tantrum yesterday, and an almost-vomit today. Other than that, you’re fine.”

It did the trick—Rhys chuckled, rolling his eyes at her.

“You’re such a bad liar, love,” he accused as he slid his hand around his waist, bringing her a little closer until she was almost on his lap. He kissed her temple. “But sure.”

Feyre’s laugh was music to his ears.

And when she turned to kiss him—kiss him properly, kiss him entirely, kiss him tenderly—Rhys finally felt every bone in his body relax.

He had missed his home, indeed.

“I have a meeting with Suriel, today,” Feyre told him the next morning, sliding a hand over her navy blazer for what was probably the third time. Rhys was removing the lid from a yogurt when she continued, “But I should be back for lunch. Are you staying home?”

Rhys’s eyes flickered to Nyx, whose attention was entirely trained on his mother.

It was undeniable, the way Nyx was absolutely in love with Feyre. It showed in all the little things.

In the way his eyes always seemed to look for her, in the way his hands always reached for her, in the way his voice always asked for her.

In the way he was always looking for her comfort in the dead of night, in the way he waited for her on the days he stayed with Rhys, in the way he laughed with her.

And in the way she was his whole world, too.

Rhys guessed it made sense. He, himself, felt the exact same way. Acted the exact same way.

And having their son be so fond of Feyre—he had never thought he could love her more. Yet seeing her become a mother had changed something in him, deep.

So when his eyes flickered to Nyx and saw him observe as Feyre was getting ready, Rhys couldn’t help his smile. Finally, he answered,

“Probably.” Rhys took a couple of steps to reach Nyx, sitting down in front of him and smiling as his son finally turned to him. “We’ll be waiting for you.”

Feyre’s meeting with Suriel turned out to last way longer than the couple of hours she had expected. Rhys spent the day with Nyx, taking care of him like he had missed it, for the two days he’d been gone—playing with him and laughing at his son’s energetic behavior. Falling in love a little more every time he asked to play Starship, or every single time he dragged Feyre’s doll along with him in another room.

By the time the door to their house finally opened, the night was already dark and the moon already up in the sky—Nyx had fallen asleep against his father’s chest, refusing to go to bed before Feyre was back home.

Not that Rhys minded—he kept looking at his sleeping son and enjoyed the way his small chest was rising and falling with each breath he took.

From where he was sitting on the couch, Rhys’s eyes flickered to the door, giving him a perfect view of the hallway, waiting for Feyre to appear. She did after just a second.

And one single look at her was enough for Rhys to know something was off.

The perfectly tailored suit she had adorned this morning was ruffled and looked like it’d spent the better part of her day balled up in a corner. Thick strands of hair were escaping the tight braid she’d spent a couple of minutes diligently making, and her makeup was worn out in what Rhys knew was exhaustion.

Her eyes were a little blank, trying to hide the emotions he knew so well to read in her, and the lines of her face were sharp and tight.

The smile she forced on her lips didn’t fool him.

And her gentle and quiet Hey you, only confirmed everything Rhys could read in her.

He frowned, tracking her movements as she took a few steps toward them.

He asked, his hands never stopping their movement, rubbing up and down Nyx’s back.

“What’s wrong?”

As if she was surprised by the question, Feyre’s eyes flickered to his—a child getting caught. They landed on Nyx again as she shrugged out her blazer, revealing her wrinkled button-down shirt underneath.

“It’s late,” she finally answered when she plopped down on the couch beside them, tucking her feet underneath her and leaning in to near Nyx’s head.

It wasn’t really an answer to his question.

Yet, Rhys took it for what it was—a clear indication that she wasn’t willing to explain, just yet.

So like he knew she’d need, he moved to slide an arm around her, bringing her closer to both of them. Feyre came willingly, her face resting against his shoulder and her forehead almost touching Nyx’s.

Her deep breath was heavy and exhausted. It was also pained, or so Rhys could have sworn.

“They’re sending me back.”

Those were the words that Feyre finally blurted out later—in the quiet of their bedroom, in the dead of the night, in the comfort of their bed.

She’d been silent all evening—had been lost in her own head for a long while, even long after they’d brought Nyx to bed. Rhys had let her. Let her untangle her feelings, her thoughts, her heart. He held her through it all.

Yet when she spoke the words—a murmur in the night, a quiet admission in their home, a piece of information he wasn’t sure what to do with, just yet—Rhys’s heart skipped a beat.

He pulled away from her, brows already furrowing as he searched her face.

“Wha—”

“They’re sending me back, Rhys,” she repeated quietly, her eyes trying to find some answers in his as if he would be able to help her. “They—they want me to go back on a mission.”

Rhys clamped his mouth shut, his breathing slow and deep—the only sound they could hear in the bedroom.

“They’re sending you back,” he echoed quietly after a few beats of his heart. Feyre nodded slowly. “And you don’t want that?”

Her eyes—always betraying her emotions before her words did—turned into a cold glare.

It made sense, too. For Rhys already knew what she was about to say even before she answered,

“I would,” she told him anyway, voice sharp and words laced with guilt. “If only we didn’t have a two-year old boy at home, and if only they’d given me more time to prepare.”

“You asked for a long-term maternity leave when you got pregnant,” Rhys tried, thumb rubbing up and down her waist in an almost anxious motion. “You asked for at least four years after his birth. They didn’t take that into consideration?”

Feyre pressed her eyes closed.

She took a deep breath. Another one.

And then,

“Clearly,” she enunciated slowly, coldly, quietly, “not.”

Rhys didn’t know what to answer that. Didn’t know how to reassure, didn’t even know how to process. He guessed that’s exactly what Feyre had tried to do all evening—process that piece of information she didn’t want to face.

Almost abruptly, she straightened, sitting upright on the bed and pulling her knees to her chest.

“They’re sending me back to Nyx,” she admitted quietly, almost as if she didn’t want to speak the words. “They want to redo Mission Starfall.“

“To celebrate the tenth anniversary,” Rhys finished for her—a guess.

When Feyre glanced at him over her shoulder, her eyes were pained. The only confirmation Rhys needed.

Rhys let out a long sigh. A tired and defeated one. A reflective one, also.

There were a lot of questions he wanted to ask her.

Questions like, Are you sure you have no other choice? and like, When is that supposed to be?

Questions like, Did you tell them you wanted to wait until Nyx turned five to leave again? and, Are you sure there’s no other way?

Questions he knew to be useless, too.

Because Feyre had probably asked them all, thought about them all, argued against Suriel about each one—probably the very reason she looked so defeated right now.

He kept searching the side of her face for the answers she wasn’t able to voice, kept reading on her features every single proof of her uncertainty, kept taking in the way her eyes looked hollow with sorrow.

And when he couldn’t take it anymore, he decided to offer whatever comfort he could provide.

“Okay,” Rhys said, straightening as well, and placing a hand on the small of Feyre’s back. “The mission lasted 20 months last time, start to finish,” he stated, slowly nodding. “That was because we spent a lot of time searching for that star.”

Feyre moved as he spoke, leaning her head on her knees, gaze never leaving his—as if she was trying to hold on to his words and to the certainty in his voice.

“Things are different now,” he continued, willing his tone to be as reassuring as he could make it. “We know all there is to know. We know exactly where that star is, and how to reach it in exactly four months. We know how to land on it, too.”

Rhys pressed a kiss to Feyre’s shoulder.

“So we know how to bring you back home in less than seven months.”

“That’s after Christmas,” Feyre countered quietly, resentment lacing her words.

It was. And Rhys knew how much it meant to Feyre—to all of them. To spend Christmas together, to celebrate it, to make it special for Nyx.

Still, he said,

“It’s before Nyx’s third birthday.”

It was half a guess—Rhys still didn’t know when, exactly, they were planning on sending her out.

Before him, she closed her eyes. She took a deep breath. A confirmation.

She took her time to muse on his words, to think about it, to process it, perhaps. His hand was still warming her back, and Rhys started roaming it slowly, brushing against her night shirt.

Eventually, Feyre broke the silence with an almost inaudible,

“There’s something else.”

Rhys didn’t answer. He braced himself for what she was about to admit instead.

“You can’t assist me on the mission.”

At that, his eyebrows rose so high on his forehead that he was sure they almost reached his hairline. His hand stopped moving on her back.

“What?”

“They made it very clear you can’t be my astrophysicist.”

The scoff that left Rhys was purely uncontrolled.

“I—excuse—“

“You can’t,” Feyre repeated gently—perhaps more for his sake than for hers, this time, “be the one to assist me on the mission, Rhys. They refuse.”

His jaw ticked. It was hard to contain the irritation building inside him.

“And why,” Rhys asked, “did Suriel refuse?”

Feyre straightened completely this time, leaning against the headrest behind her.

“We’re married.”

“As we were for the last three missions.”

“But we didn’t have a kid back then.”

Rhys scowled. “And?”

“And,” Feyre explained with a deep breath. “They seem to believe it’d be better for you—for us, if someone else assisted me on this.”

For a few moments, Rhys kept silent, only searching her face. Until eventually, he guessed,

“You agree.”

Almost as if she’d been caught, Feyre averted her eyes—just for a second, before finding his again.

“I—“ she tried. “I want you there with me, Rhys. You know I do. But I—I just think that it,” she took a deep breath. “I think it might be best for Nyx,” she admitted.

Rhys’s eyes snapped closed.

“He can’t have both of us busy like that,” Feyre continued quietly. “And if you assist me on this, you’ll be working impossible hours. You and I both know it.”

Of course he did.

But also…

“I won’t get to talk to you live, Feyre.”

His eyes found hers again as he spoke the words, giving him a perfect view of the struggle in her face.

“If I’m not your astrophysicist,” he shook his head, then repeated, “I won’t be able to talk to you live.”

Slowly, she nodded.

“I know.”

The deep breath Rhys took, this time, was a steadying one. Feyre matched it.

Gently, he slid his hands on her waist and brought her closer to him—leaning his forehead against hers, brushing his thumb back and forth in a soothing motion. For her or for himself, Rhys couldn’t be sure.

Eventually—when their breathing was no longer as difficult and when their brows were a little less furrowed—Rhys took a deep breath.

And he said,

“You’ll be back before Nyx’s third birthday.”

There was a finality in his tone.

An acceptance in his voice.

A resignation in his words.

“And we’ll be here, waiting for you and cheering you on.”

The day Feyre left felt wrong on so many levels.

It was wrong to wake up that morning to the knowledge that she’d be leaving their small cocoon for months. It was wrong to hear her take deep breaths that Rhys knew were supposed to help her gather her spirits.

And it was wrong—oh so wrong to see her say goodbye to their son. To see Nyx struggle to understand why his mother was leaving, why she was pressing so many kisses on his skin, why she was sniffling messily and trying so fucking hard to rein in her tears.

Why she eventually started crying, although trying to hide it.

Rhys had never seen so many people gathered to watch the launch of a mission—journalists and NASA employees and a couple of friends, too.

He noticed none of them.

His eyes were entirely trained on Feyre, his ears solely hearing Nyx’s quiet questions, his arms only tightening around their son.

And her, in return, had never looked so off.

Rhys saw it in every step she took toward the spaceship. He noticed it in the fake smiles she tried to offer the journalists and in the trembling hand she lifted to wave at whoever was calling for her.

A part of him was glad Nyx was a little too excited about seeing a spaceship for the first time to understand his mother was leaving.

Another part of him had never felt so fucking wrong, indeed.

“Mama?”

Nyx was frowning—his eyes still wet and teary, just like they had been for a few hours now. Rhys tried to offer him a sad smile as he pulled the covers a little higher over him.

“She’s still in space, Buddy,” he answered quietly—repeated the words he felt like he’d already said dozens of times.

Nyx still needed the confirmation, apparently.

From where he was lying on his bed, he searched Rhys’s face. His brows were slowly furrowing, and trying to understand why his mother had been gone for a few hours now.

Rhys repositioned himself on the bed, lying beside his son as he placed his palm on top of his chest over the covers.

“You remember the ship we saw earlier?” he asked him, making his voice as gentle and quiet as possible.

Nyx nodded, his eyes never leaving Rhys.

“She went to space,” he tried to explain. “Mama went to space.”

When Nyx didn’t react, only kept searching his face, Rhys moved his hand until it brushed against his son’s face.

“Mama will be there for a few days,” he said—tried to ignore the fact that days were actually months, and continued, “She told you before she left that she would go to the sky and see the stars.”

Rhys couldn’t be sure how much sense he was making.

He couldn’t be sure how reassuring he was being.

And he couldn’t be sure, either, how much Nyx was understanding.

His eyes slowly blinked at his dad, eyes the exact shade of violet, until eventually, Nyx straightened. His movements were almost abrupt and so unexpected that Rhys almost startled. Still, he watched as Nyx removed the covers before climbing out of bed and slowly walking toward his window.

The smile that stretched Rhys’s lips was equally unexpected. Equally fond.

He joined his son in front of the window as soon as he realized what he was doing, and helped the two-year-old settle down on his lap.

“Yeah,” Rhys agreed, wrapping his arms around his son and lowering his head against his neck as Nyx leaned back against him. “She’s up there.”

Both their heads were tilted up at the sky—observing the stars shining bright.

When silence enveloped the room, Rhys tried to rock Nyx back and forth. He pressed his lips against his skin, relishing in the way Nyx seemed to lean against the touch.

And he closed his eyes, the moment he heard Nyx’s quiet voice call,

“Mama.”

Rhys took a deep breath.

He guessed the hardest part of the next couple of months would be to hide the way he was actively missing Feyre, himself.

So instead, he murmured,

“Mama loves you very much, Buddy.” Another kiss. “She’ll be home soon.”

“Hi.”

Feyre’s voice was a little weird—her tone sounding almost anxious, almost funny, almost giddy.

She giggled, the sound making Rhys smile immediately.

“It’s weird,” she said, frowned, then shook her head slowly. She cleared her throat, swallowed, and lifted a hand to her face—letting it float up until she could brush her braid off her shoulder.

“I hope you’re not watching this with Nyx, because I’m still getting used to—” She paused, motioning to something before her, “All of this.”

Rhys huffed a little laugh.

He leaned back in his chair, keeping his eyes on the video playing before him with a thundering heart.

He’d received the video a little earlier that day—NASA had emailed it to him in the early afternoon. It was the first time he received a video from her—Rhys had assisted in every other mission she’d been a part of, which meant they’d never had to use the video system before.

She’d been gone for a whole month now.

And Rhys had been missing her for just as long.

“So,” the version of Feyre displayed on his computer continued, “I’ve been told we can send each other videos once a month. Did you know that?”

She paused, a slow shrug of her shoulders made weird by the microgravity, making her move a little awkwardly.

“I never really thought about it before,” she said. “I don’t know how everybody else survives without speaking to their family, it’s just—”

She trailed off, her eyes flickering to something upwards.

Just a way to stop her tears from rising, Rhys guessed.

The smile she forced on her lips was tight and unnatural, then.

“Anyway,” she said pointedly. “God, the start of this video is so bad.” She half-chuckled. Took a deep breath. “I hope you’re both well,” she said. “I miss you—” she shook her head, “—like crazy. I miss you all the damn time. I—I’ve always thought my life would be accomplished once I became an Astronaut and I’d be able to get into space, and now…”

For a few seconds, Feyre’s sentence hung unfinished in the air—the speakers gone quiet and leaving Rhys only hearing the thud in his heart and her slightly shaking breathing.

In the video, she still looked a little disturbed. A little pained. A little distraught.

“Now, I feel like I already have everything I need.”

A slow, sad smile spread across her lips. Rhys matched it.

He held his breath for the couple of seconds it took her to observe the camera, almost as if she was observing him.

Rhys did the same—taking deep breath after deep breath in the sole attempt at easing his heart.

“Now,” Feyre eventually started again. “Will you show this to our son?” She cocked her head to the side, smile still fond on her lips, and eyes glinting with tears. “I really, really miss my little boy.”

Rhys was already straightening when Feyre continued,

“I’m assuming you’re getting him right now. Don’t show him the start of this, this is so bad,” she chuckled—a delightful little sound. “But I want him to hear my voice. I don’t want him to forget it—forget me.” Rhys rolled his eyes—the idea in itself was so laughable.

“Oh, and, Rhys?” she rushed to say, her eyes snapping up to the camera as if she’d only remembered something.

“I love you.”

Rhys paused the video. Took a couple of steadying breaths.

When he felt like he could rein in his emotions, he slowly stood. He knew Nyx was already sleeping in his bedroom—he decided to join him in bed anyway.

It was only later, when he inevitably woke up fussing and crying in the middle of the night, when he started sniffling messily, and when even Rhys’s quiet reassurance and gentle words didn’t calm him down that Rhys murmured,

“Here.”

He reached for the computer he’d brought near his son’s bed. He placed it before a curious-looking Nyx.

And he pressed play.

Nyx’s eyes were already blown wide and entirely trained on Feyre’s face.

On the smile illuminating her whole face, and on her eyes glinting with pain, and on her freckles, shining under the bright light of the spaceship she was in.

“Mama.” Nyx’s voice was quiet.

Rhys was just as much when he breathed, “Yeah,” just before pressing a kiss to his temple.

“Hi, Baby,” Feyre’s voice enveloped the room in a feeling of home.

If Rhys closed his eyes, he could almost believe she was right there—right beside them in their home, comforting Nyx and holding him through the night.

They were both entirely silent as she kept talking, Mama’s here, honey.

Both kept absolutely still as she explained, I’m in space. Just like the games we always play, remember?

Both kept fully focused on her as she continued, Every time I look down at the Earth, I feel like I can see you.

Both stayed close, Nyx leaning back against Rhys’s chest and Rhys tightening his hold around his son.

Can you feel me too, when you look up at the sky?

When the video eventually stopped with a quiet and heartfelt I love you. I promise I’ll be back home very soon, they both stayed unmoving for a couple beats of their hearts. Rhys was about to move the computer to the side, but Nyx stopped him with a gentle hold around his wrist. He turned to him, eyes searching and pleading.

And he asked, a little shyly,

“Again?”

Rhys let a slow smile stretch his lips.

He pressed a kiss on his son’s forehead as he said,

“Sure.”

They played the video four more times—and Rhys was quite sure that Nyx would have asked to play it again, had he not fallen asleep halfway through the fifth time.

They managed to fall into a nice routine.

Spending their days playing and talking—Nyx making more progress than Rhys could really comprehend. They went out in the morning to enjoy the sun warming their faces and usually ate a lunch they prepared together.

Sometimes, when Nyx fell asleep for a nap in the early afternoon, Rhys would take his computer and use the opportunity to get some work done—knowing the time he’d gotten off since Feyre had been sent off didn’t mean he couldn’t feel useful, at least to some level.

Other times, when Nyx didn’t manage to fall asleep alone, Rhys would lie down beside him. Those times, he was always reminded of how much the little boy missed his mother—and somehow, this hurt more than the ache in Rhys’s own heart.

The nights were always the hardest.

It wasn’t exactly rare for them to curl up beside the window until Nyx fell asleep on Rhys’s lap. It wasn’t rare, either, to play Feyre’s videos on repeat.

Just like she’d mentioned, they’d received a second one in the following month—just a couple of days after Rhys and Nyx had filmed one to send it to her in return.

So they fell into a nice little routine, trying to ignore the missing part of their family.

Trying to make peace with the fact that they were still incomplete.

Trying to be as patient as they could.

The third month passed, and Feyre’s voice echoed in Nyx’s bedroom in an excited giggle and a smile so wide that both Nyx and Rhys had to mimic it.

The fourth month passed, and Nyx’s speaking had never been so good. He asked for what he wanted and pointed to what he wished for—and they played the video sitting on their couch, Nyx holding Feyre’s doll close to his chest and repeating each word after her.

The fifth video arrived just in time for Christmas, bringing with it a feeling of nostalgia that Rhys had not been prepared for.

Is it cold at home? Feyre asked the screen, the lines of her face looking more and more tired with every single video she sent them.

I hope you get to choose the biggest Christmas tree you can find. And that you’ll eat so many cookies your stomach will hurt. And that you’ll—

On the video, she paused. Her eyes started glinting more than the usual—and Rhys guessed he knew exactly why. He guessed she felt more homesick than she’d like to admit, more homesick than the usual. More homesick than ever.

She inhaled sharply, half a sniffle, truly.

I hope you have the best Christmas, she finally breathed.

And I hope you know I love you both so, so much.

“Daddy?”

Nyx’s voice was quiet and raspy in the quiet of the night. Rhys’s head perked up immediately, turning to the hallway where the voice had come from.

“Nyxie, Buddy, you’re still up?”

Nyx kept walking toward his dad, his pajamas loose and a fist rubbing tiredly at one eye.

“I can’t sleep.”

Rhys couldn’t say he was surprised. Nyx had been having trouble sleeping ever since Feyre had left. It was no wonder that tonight wasn’t any different.

When Nyx was finally close enough, Rhys held out a gentle hand to his son, which he took eagerly for the last couple of steps it took him to close the distance. Nyx climbed on Rhys’s lap immediately.

It was January now, and Feyre was supposed to be back in just a few weeks.

It was probably the reason why they hadn’t gotten a new video yet—because she was too busy to send one.

At least that's what Rhys told himself.

And that’s what he tried to believe, too, every single time his mind wandered a little too far—toward fear-tainted thoughts he wanted to ignore.

In the room, his hand roamed up and down Nyx’s back.

That night, they both stayed silent—simply holding each other close through the night.

Rhys really started to worry by early February, when he still hadn’t received the video he was supposed to receive for the second month in a row.

And by the middle of the month, when he couldn’t take it anymore, he barged into the NASA headquarters without preamble.

Nyx was gripping his hand tight—holding Feyre’s doll in his free hand and trying to keep up with his father’s pace.

His birthday was in exactly one week.

And Rhys was slowly losing it.

“We’re only going to talk to Mama’s boss,” Rhys explained gently, for what was maybe the tenth time. “You’ll stay with your uncle Cass while I go speak with her, okay?”

Nyx’s voice was quiet and uncertain—a shy little thing—when he asked,

“Can I stay with you, Daddy?”

The little boy slowed his strides as he asked, and Rhys mimicked him.

At the far end of the corridor, they could already see Cassian waiting for them, his arms folded over his chest and his face closed off.

Rhys paid him no mind as he crouched down beside Nyx.

“I’ll only be gone for a few minutes,” he told Nyx—a promise. He lifted his hand to his son’s forehead, gently brushed his hair back, and offered him a smile. One a little more certain than Rhys had been able to offer for a couple of months, now. A little less genuine, too.

“Just a few minutes and I’ll be right back, Buddy,” Rhys cocked his head to the side, let his palm linger on Nyx’s cheek, and sealed his promise with his gaze locked with his son’s. “Alright?”

Nyx’s nod was slow. He knew he understood.

Just like he’d been for a few minutes, Cassian was still waiting by Suriel’s office door when they took the last couple of steps that separated them. His lips broke into a gentle smile for Nyx, his eyes glinting with mischief, at least almost—to Rhys, it looked like they were trying to hide a worry he didn’t want to show.

Rhys swallowed it down.

Swallowed his own growing worry, swallowed his own fears, swallowed his own insecurities.

Swallowed down the voice in his head telling him he should brace himself, swallowed the rational part of him telling him something was wrong, and swallowed the irrational part of him, too—telling him something had happened.

He swallowed everything down—and took a deep breath before entering Suriel’s office.

Everything was silent in her office when Rhys entered it unceremoniously—without even bothering to knock on the door. He simply entered, met Suriel’s eyes the moment her head snapped up to him, and closed the door behind him.

He took one step forward as she leaned back in her chair. Another step forward. She slowly removed the glasses perched on her nose.

Rhys slid his hands deep in his pockets.

Suriel searched his face for a couple of moments.

And she said—enunciating slowly the words Rhys could have guessed on his own,

“Professor Knight.” Her voice almost sounded flat and insignificant—he knew better, though. There was a hint of bother underneath.

“What can I—”

“I want an update on my wife’s current position,” he announced, tone leaving no place for an argument.

Before him, Suriel didn’t even look surprised.

“Unfortunately, Professor,” she told him, “you know I cannot give you information on a current mission. You know I—”

“I wasn’t asking,” Rhys shook his head. “I want an update on her whereabouts. I want to know what’s going on, and why I haven’t received anything from her in two months.”

For a moment, he almost believed Suriel was about to answer. But she shook her head then, lips pursed.

“This information is confidential,” she eventually said. “Only the officials who are actively working on the mission are privy to that kind of—”

“I was only kept out of the mission,” he countered coldly, “because you refused me there.”

Rhys took a step forward, his eyes turning into a downward glare.

“I just need you to assure me she’s okay, and when, exactly, her ship is expected to be back. I’m not—”

“Professor,” Suriel sighed, the sound exhausted. “You—”

“She was supposed to come back this month,” Rhys continued, his words a little more rushed—his heart a little more painful. “Will she?”

Because there was something, wasn’t there?

There was something going on—something Suriel didn’t want to tell him.

It was undeniable.

It was in the way Suriel held his gaze, but only for a couple of minutes before she averted her eyes.

In the way she ticked her jaw—but wasn’t nearly as irritated as she should be.

In the way she refused to give any kind of information, too. Not even a Don’t worry or a, She’ll be back very soon. Not even a, Your wife is perfectly fine or a, The mission is going as smoothly as it should.

Not anything.

It all gave Rhys the confirmation of something he didn’t want to believe—and perhaps it was even worse than not knowing. Because now—

“What,” he breathed, chest heaving in a mixture of anger and worry and pain and incomprehension. His heart thudding in a weird pull of rage and dread and anxiety. “Happened.”

The question didn’t sound like it at all. Instead, it’d come out in a cold order. In a quiet command.

Suriel apparently knew it, too.

The facade on her face dropped slightly, the pretense giving way to an almost neutral expression.

She said,

“We’re—”

“The truth, Suriel,” he bit out. “Just give me the fucking truth.”

There was a minute that passed between them—a minute where all Rhys could feel was the sickening feeling in his stomach and the pang in his heart. This fucking irrational yet very real fright—trying to dictate him to move, to do something, to do anything.

To tear apart the world just to—

“It appears,” Suriel slowly tried, her words slow and her tone flat. Rhys knew better, though—it was trying to hide her own worry. “—that your wife’s spaceship has gone missing from our radars.”

Rhys felt like all the air was being sucked out of him—like he was caught in a trap, in a nightmare so fucking real he could not escape from.

“The signals we’re sending out have not received any response for a few days,” Suriel kept going. “We are actively trying to—”

“How long.”

Again, his tone was nothing more than a broken breath.

His question nothing more than a murmur.

“We lost contact just after Christmas,” Suriel answered quietly.

And if he had been thinking clearly, perhaps Rhys would have noticed the growing worry in her eyes as well. Perhaps he would have seen the guilt in her face. Perhaps he would have heard the hesitation in her words.

Rhys wasn’t thinking clearly.

He wasn’t thinking clearly at all.

He was fucking seething, panting, losing it entirely.

He was connecting the dots without meaning to, understanding things he didn’t want to understand, processing a piece of information he refused to believe.

And yet—

“Two months.”

Suriel’s eyes fluttered closed, but only for a second.

As if she hadn’t wanted to face the evidence that it had, indeed, been that long.

“Two fucking months,” he repeated—almost yelling. “Are you fucking kidding me?”

“Rhys,” she tried, not even bothering with his title anymore. “Rhys, we—”

“Are you,” he repeated through clenched teeth—slowly shaking his head and curling his hands into fists at his sides, “fucking kidding me?!”

His chest was heaving again when he took another step toward her, and his eyes glaring more than he could truly understand when he stopped right in front of her, slamming his hands on the hard wood of her desk.

Suriel tried,

“I—”

“I want to be part of the team searching for her.”

The woman closed her mouth, slowly shaking her head even before she answered,

“You know I can’t do that, Rhys. You know I—”

“I want,” he repeated through clenched teeth. “—to be part of that team, Suriel. I will find her.”

Again, Suriel opened her mouth to speak—though the words died on her tongue when the door behind them opened on a gasp and a set of running footsteps.

They both turned around to be met with a running Nyx, closely followed by Cassian, who was trying to catch him a couple of steps behind.

And despite everything—despite his still aching heart and the rage threatening to swallow him whole; despite the worry gnawing at him and screeching his bones—despite everything, Rhys plastered whatever smile he could muster on his face, crouching down to catch his son before he collided with his legs.

“Nyxie, Buddy,” Rhys’s voice felt foreign—felt foreign. Felt like a lie, really. “What—”

But his question hung unfinished in the air when he noticed the tears gathered in Nyx’s pupils—a deep ocean of stars threatening to spill from his eyes.

Nyx mumbled, “You weren’t there.”

Rhys swallowed around the lump in his throat.

Swallowed around the guilt and the worry and the fear.

Swallowed around the fact that his son was afraid of being alone—simply because he was missing his mother too damn much.

Without even asking, he pulled him close to his heart, wrapping his arms around him like a blanket.

His eyes flickered to Suriel, then to Cassian as he answered quietly,

“I was right here, Buddy.”

Against his neck, Nyx sniffled.

“And Mama,” he tried weakly, head moving slowly against Rhys. “She’s here, too?”

Rhys tried not to grimace. Tried not to crumble, too.

And again, just for the sake of the little boy in his arms, he closed his eyes, and managed to rein in all the emotions trying to tear him down.

“Not yet, Buddy,” he breathed, pressed a kiss to his son’s neck. “She’s not here, yet.”

Slowly, Rhys rose to his feet, never letting go of his son. He turned to Suriel one last time, offering her a glare he hoped she’d understand. And he told her,

“That wasn’t a question.” She already knew what he was referring to. “Arrange for me to be part of this mission, Suriel.”

She opened her mouth to speak, then clamped it shut.

And finally, she tipped her head in a curt nod.

Rhys left NASA headquarters with his son in his arms, his breathing ragged and his heart in his throat.

Rhys was included in Mission Starfall the day after. And he started working day and night trying to understand what had happened.

He learned Feyre’s ship had, indeed, gone missing exactly two days after they’d received her last video. And the whole team appointed to the mission had not stopped looking for her ever since.

He reviewed her trajectory, her speed, the last position they’d marked for her. Reviewed every single calculation that had been made for her, every single change in her initial plan.

Rhys didn’t stop.

Not for a single moment.

He worked from home, on his computer without caring about the hours ticking by during the day—trying to take care of Nyx in the meantime, all while knowing his son probably noticed how his head was elsewhere.

He worked at nights, too—not caring for the few hours of sleep he got, when he finally felt like he was doing something.

He worked all through February, (only taking a single day off on Nyx’s birthday—and trying to ignore the way she should be here, she should be with them, she should be home).

He worked all through March, (sometimes making the trip to the NASA headquarters and spending countless hours there while he had Mor or Cassian take care of Nyx—and trying to ignore the way he felt like a failure, like an unworthy husband and father, like a powerless man).

He worked through April, (drank more coffee than he should, slept less than was wise, spent less and less time with his son, and worried more and more every single day).

He worked through May, too.

He ignored the growing circles under his eyes. Ignored the never-ending shaking of his leg, betraying the sickening feeling in his heart. Ignored the nausea, never leaving his stomach.

Everyone told him the sixth month was usually the one they gave up on researching.

Rhys wouldn’t have that. Couldn’t have that.

He felt hopeless, breathless, heartless. All while knowing he had to keep going.

He kept sending signals and directions up to her spaceship—not knowing whether she’d be able to receive them.

Kept calculating trajectories for her—all while knowing she wouldn’t be able to see them.

Kept hoping on every star—all while knowing it was probably useless.

Rhys didn’t remember a time he’d felt so useless. Or exhausted. Or fucking worried.

Perhaps it was no wonder his patience was wearing thin.

Perhaps it was no wonder he wanted to break.

Perhaps it was no wonder he finally did.

It came one evening, after a very long and exhausting day. After he’d spent hours and hours trying to understand.

After Suriel had come to see him in the office he was working at, too. And after she’d told him, It’ll be exactly six months next week.

After she’d added, Please consider—

Rhys didn’t dare to remember the rest of her sentence.

And he didn’t dare, either, to process her meaning.

He was fucking exhausted (indeed), and fucking sad (indeed), and fucking hopeless (indeed), when he came back home—to a fussing Nyx and a pained-looking Mor. To a fucking mess of a house, too.

And to his broken heart—it had never left him, anyway.

He took a deep breath, tried to calm the thunder he was containing every single day, and thanked Mor with a tip of his head. Ignored her words again, when she reached his doorstep and told him—her eyes sad and her words hesitant,

“He’s missing you, Rhys.”

Against his best instincts, Rhys rolled his eyes—nerves threatening to snap.

“I’m right here.”

Mor’s expression turned ten times more pained, then. And she said,

“And yet,” a slow shrug of a shoulder. “You’re not.”

Back in his house, Rhys clenched and unclenched his fists a couple of times.

He swallowed around the lump that had not left him for days on end, now.

And he tried, with everything that he had, to keep the rage neatly tucked in his heart, and in his throat, and in his mind—anywhere he could hide it, since getting rid of it was a lost hope.

He tried to keep it at bay while he cooked dinner and while Nyx fussed around his legs—tapping incessantly against his knees. He tried to keep it contained during dinner, while Nyx pushed all the food Rhys offered him away, shaking his head incessantly, and started crying halfway through the disaster of a meal they were having.

And then, Rhys tried to contain it while he got Nyx ready for bed. While he made him take a bath, only to have him splash water all around the bathroom. While he tried to dry him, only to have him yell and scream his heart out. While he tried to slide his pajamas on, only for him to push Rhys away and away and away.

So Rhys fucking tried—to stay patient. To keep his calm. To stay contained.

He failed.

Dramatically.

“Will you fucking,” he hissed, screamed, erupted, “stop. Just—just calm down—just fucking—”

The words were out of his mouth before he could realize it.

Never—ever—had he yelled at Nyx before. Never had he been harsh, or violent, or strict. Never had he believed in yelling at a child, never had he meant to yell at his son.

That day, he had.

And Rhys regretted it even before the words, and their meaning, and the harshness in his tone crossed his lips.

He blinked—his pupils blown wide and his eyes pleading for forgiveness even before he could utter another word.

Nyx was looking as struck as he felt. His tiny chest was heaving—filling his spacecraft pajamas with every rise and fall of his chest—and his breathing was hard. He blinked at Rhys once, twice, thrice. Every single blink of his eyes bringing his tears to the surface.

Rhys crouched down—his chest hurting and aching and too fucking tight. For a very different reason now.

“Nyxie,” he breathed—guilty, ashamed, fucking—

“I want my Mama.”

Nyx took a step away when Rhys extended a hand to him. The first tear spilled on his cheek as he repeated,

“I want my Mama.”

Rhys’s throat was so tight it was hard to breathe.

“I know, Buddy, I—”

Nyx took another step backward when Rhys tried to get closer to him again.

“I don’t want you,” Nyx sobbed. “I don’t—” Another step back. Another tear in Rhys’s heart. “I don’t want you.”

“Buddy,” Rhys breathed, tried, pleaded. “I’m so sorry. I—”

It was a step forward, then, that Nyx took. Another one. And then—a shove.

He shoved at Rhys with more force than either of them expected, making Rhys fall backward in surprise.

“I don’t want you,” Nyx repeated in a choked scream. “I want my Mama!”

Rhys’s chest was heaving when Nyx exited the bathroom, tears streaming down the little boy’s face. On trembling legs, Rhys stood, trying to chase after him.

“Nyxie,” he called, “wait—”

“No,” Nyx was almost at his door. “I want her. I want her!”

“I—”

“I wish you were gone instead of her!”

The words echoed around them for seconds, minutes, hours. For eternity.

For just as long as it took Rhys’s heart to break, and just as long as it took for Feyre to be gone.

For just how long it had taken Rhys to ruin everything.

And to lose everything.

Nyx was looking at his father with a mixture of shame and guilt and sadness and pain. With a kind of grief, probably, too. And an exhaustion neither of them could get rid of.

Rhys was feeling all of it as well. The exact same feelings, the exact same emotions. The exact same heartbreak.

All while the exact same tears streamed down his face, leaking from the exact same eyes.

Across from him, Nyx blinked.

Rhys opened his mouth to speak.

Nyx slammed his bedroom door—a loud thud echoing around them where his words had stretched in the air.

And Rhys breathed—to no one in particular, or to himself, he didn’t know,

“Me too.”

It took Rhys a long while to calm down.

To calm his bleeding heart and his clouded mind and his ragged breathing.

To calm the tears in his eyes, too.

And the tear in his soul.

He spent the whole evening tidying his home—in the sole attempt at finding some peace of mind.

It dawned on him—really, truly did—how much he had failed on all parts.

He had failed as an astrophysicist—not able to help the astronaut he’d always been assisting.

He’d failed as a husband—not able to save the love of his life.

And he’d failed as a father as well. Not able to protect his son and be there for him as he should have been.

It was on this thought that he entered Nyx’s bedroom on quiet feet a couple of hours later. Everything was silent in the room—except for Nyx’s deep breathing.

The bed was empty when Rhys looked, though. Instead, the little boy was lying on the floor, curled up in front of the window.

Looking at the stars, probably.

Trying to look for her.

The sight broke a new part of Rhys’s heart. Still, he approached slowly. Crouched down beside his son and carefully lifted him in his arms—trying to be as gentle as he could as he walked back to his bed.

He was lowering him on the mattress when Nyx murmured—just a breath in the dead of night,

“Daddy.”

The simple use of the endearment brought tears to Rhys’s eyes. He pulled the covers up to tuck Nyx in as he murmured in answer,

“Yeah, Buddy. I’m right here.”

There was a pause. One during which Rhys didn’t dare to move, or even breathe.

The same guilt that had been swallowing him for hours now was still swirling inside him. And every breath he took made him fear another rejection.

Nyx blinked one eye open to find Rhys’s gaze in the dark—both their tired and swollen eyes meeting in the same pain and ache. The three-year-old was the one to break the silence,

“I miss her.”

The words rang so loud and clear in Rhys’s mind that he was quite sure a part of him died.

He searched his little boy’s face. And he took him in—his ruffled hair and his worried expression. Nyx had changed since that day Feyre had left. And now, almost three and a half years old, he’d never looked so grown up.

“I know you miss her, Buddy,” Rhys finally agreed quietly, his heart thundering in his chest. He rubbed his hand against Nyx’s back, giving a gentle reassurance. “I know. But you—”

“I want her to be back,” Nyx continued, brows slowly furrowing. “I want to—”

“Nyx—”

“I just—” a messy sniffle was what made him trail off. “I just want my Mama.”

Just because he wasn’t sure what to offer to that, Rhys didn’t answer. Not with his words anyway.

He slowly leaned in, pulling Nyx a little closer and enveloping him in his arms. A wave of relief washed over him when Nyx didn’t pull away, instead leaning against his father’s chest. The moment Rhys realized, he pulled Nyx onto his lap and started rocking him slowly, a gentle rhythm to hopefully warm his heart.

Rhys pressed a kiss to the top of his head, cradled the side of his face with his palm.

And he breathed,

“I miss her, too, Nyxie.”

The only comfort he could provide—that they were aching together. That they were sharing the same pain. Bearing the same heartbreak.

“And I’m so,” he continued in a broken rasp. “So sorry for yelling.”

In his arms, Nyx sniffled. Rhys continued,

“I should have been there with you.”

Rhys brushed a kiss on his forehead.

“I’m sorry.”

Another messy sniffle. Rhys couldn’t tell if it was his or Nyx’s.

But Nyx buried his head deeper in the crook of his father’s neck, seeking the reassurance only he could give, and Rhys obliged—tightening his hold around him.

“I love you, Daddy.”

Nyx’s voice was still broken, still pained, still sad. But it was so fucking strong, too.

It healed a part of Rhys’s heart.

“I love you too, Buddy.”

The day Feyre had gone missing for exactly six months was the day Rhys received an email he didn’t dare to open.

A video he didn’t dare to play.

He’d been warned by Suriel the week before. It was procedure for every astronaut to record a goodbye video before they were sent out to space.

And it was procedure, too, to send the video to their family—either after the death was confirmed, or after they’d been missing for exactly six months.

So Rhys received the email.

And he stayed fucking frozen before it.

He stared.

And he stared.

He stared at his screen so long his eyes started to sting, and he stared at his computer so long the screen darkened, and he started and stared and stared again.

The email subject was already sending dread to his stomach and sickness to his heart.

It was already filling his throat with bile and turning his palms sweaty.

He decided to ignore it.

He kept sending signals to space instead.

In the hopes that she’d hear them, in the hopes that she’d receive them.

In the hopes that she was still out there.

Still alive.

“And this one?”

“This one,” Rhys answered quietly, “is Orion.”

In his lap, Nyx hummed—a quiet thing. Their usual spot in front of the windows in his bedroom was giving them a perfect view of the clear sky, tonight. On his lap, Nyx’s head was darting back and forth between the sky and the doll in his hands—Feyre’s doll.

Rhys was mostly observing his son. Never tearing his eyes off him if he could avoid it.

“And here?”

Rhys slowly craned his head up to follow his line of sight, cocking his head to the side. “This,” he said, brows slowly furrowing. “Mh—”

“It’s bright.”

It was.

The star Nyx was pointing to was bright, and—

“It’s moving!”

Nyx got up from his lap almost instantly, brows furrowed as he neared the window.

“Look, Daddy! It’s moving!”

And indeed. It was moving—fast, and tracing a line in the sky and—

Rhys blinked.

His heart had started to skyrocket even before Nyx turned to him.

“Daddy,” he repeated, oblivious to the thunder inside of Rhys. “What is it?”

Everything inside Rhys wanted to answer rationally—wanted to say,

Just a falling star.

Wanted to try,

It’s probably a meteor.

What came out of his mouth instead was,

“Come on.”

Nyx furrowed his brows, eyes blinking slowly in incomprehension. Rhys was already standing when Nyx asked,

“Where are we going?”

Without even thinking, Rhys reached for his son, lifting him in his arms.

And he started walking faster than he should. Faster than was probably casual.

He didn’t bother to change Nyx out of his pajamas or to change himself into anything other than his sweatpants. When he finally answered, Nyx was still looking at him with furrowed brows.

“NASA headquarters,” Rhys eventually answered after a few minutes. He pressed a kiss to Nyx’s forehead as the door to their house slammed shut behind them. “We’re going to NASA headquarters.”

When they reached the building, everything was buzzing and busy—people hurrying around everywhere, passing by them without sparing them a glance, speaking loudly on the phone, and paying them no mind.

It shouldn’t have been weird, per se. It wouldn’t have, if only it wasn’t so late.

If only it wasn’t the middle of the night.

If only there was something—anything—planned at NASA tonight.

Only Rhys knew there wasn’t.

And there was a fucking hope in his chest, too. One he had felt the moment his eyes had landed on the flying something in the sky.

Nyx was still in his arms, his head tucked under his chin as he strode in the opposite direction from where everyone was headed. Rhys ignored them.

“What’s going on,” Nyx mumbled against his neck, his hand curling and uncurling around the doll tucked between both their bodies.

Rhys knew, from the tone of his voice, that his son was probably exhausted. And he didn’t want to give him false hope, either, so he took his time before answering. Kept walking in rushed steps, kept shrugging past hordes of people, and kept his lips almost glued to Nyx’s head in a not-exact kiss.

Eventually, Rhys said,

“I just want to check something.” He moved to kiss the side of Nyx’s head, this time. “I just—”

“Professor Knight.”

Rhys paused at the voice, glancing over his shoulder to see Suriel a couple of feet away from him. He took another few steps forward and away from her, even as she repeated,

“Professor Knight.” He guessed she’d started following after him by now, but Rhys didn’t turn to check. “You can’t be here.”

Rhys couldn’t fucking care.

“You can’t—” Her voice was coming closer. “Be here,” she repeated, her tone growing more urgent. “Especially not with a child, you—”

He threw her a sideways glance when she finally caught up to him, not even bothered by the hand she placed on his elbow to make him stop walking. He didn’t.

“I have to go to the launch site.”

The scoff that left Suriel’s lips was almost dirty. Disbelieving.

“It’s being evacuated right now,” she answered in a clipped tone. “It’s—”

“Evacuated,” Rhys repeated slowly, both his eyebrows rising on his forehead. This time, he stopped walking—only to be able to turn to the petite woman and search her face. “Evacuated, why?”

From the look on her face, Rhys guessed she had absolutely no desire to tell him the real reason. Still, Suriel must have known he wouldn’t budge because she said—the words almost clipped,

“An unidentified object is coming dangerously close to Earth, and aiming directly at—”

Rhys resumed walking the moment the words registered in his mind—his heart leaping with excitement and his steps quicker.

“Professor—” Suriel groaned ungracefully. “Fuck!”

She strode behind him, trying to keep up with his quickening strides.

“You can’t—” she tried again, half-running beside him. “Can’t go there. Only authorized personnel can—”

An almost-smirk spread on his lips as he glanced at her from the side again.

“Good,” he nodded.

“Good?”

He tilted his head toward her.

“The Chief of NASA should be authorized personnel enough.”

Beside him, Suriel’s face contorted in a disapproving grimace.

“I—”

“I’m going, whether you’re coming or not,” Rhys cut her off before she could try to add anything else. Nyx was still quiet against him, his hand now fisting Rhys’s shirt gently.

“You—”

“My wife,” Rhys bit out through clenched teeth—stopping only to glare at her, “has been lost in space for more than six months. And you’re telling me that there’s an unidentified object aiming directly at us?”

One of his hands found the back of Nyx’s head to envelop it—somehow hoping he wouldn’t understand all the words and the hope he felt.

“I’m going,” Rhys repeated with finality, “whether you want to or not. Now, you can make this easy for me and allow me entrance, or you can try to stop me. And fail.”

The woman let out a long and slow sigh. She rolled her eyes at him, muttering something under her breath that Rhys didn’t hear, because he started walking again.

Suriel didn’t speak for the remainder of the path to the launch site, and Rhys didn’t either.

He was a little too focused on the possibilities and the maybes and the perhaps.

A little too far gone hoping.

And a little too lost in believing this was real.

Rhys held his breath for the whole time it took the ship—because it was a ship, indeed—to land.

And he kept his eyes trained on the small TV in the room Suriel had dragged him to—giving him a perfect view of the landing and enabling his heart to fucking skyrocket at any new evidence that it could.

It could be this; it could be happening.

It could be her.

“Can you see this, Chief?”

Rhys didn’t turn to the man who’d just called for Suriel. His eyes were solely trained on the small screen before him.

“Daddy?”

Without ever tearing his eyes away from the ship coming closer and closer, Rhys moved to kiss Nyx’s forehead.

He answered, “Yeah?”

Nyx didn’t answer right away—the sound of his breathing lost to the other conversations in the room. Only after a few seconds did he ask again,

“Mama’s coming home?”

At that, finally, Rhys tore his eyes away from the screen to look at his son.

A part of him almost regretted his carelessness and his recklessness. Almost regretted the hope he’d shared with his son—simply because if that wasn’t true…

Rhys opened his mouth to speak, the words tasting sour in his mouth even before he spoke them.

“I—”

“This is it.”

Rhys blinked slowly, this time turning to the man who was pointing at something on his computer screen. Suriel was bending down to look over his shoulder as he continued, “This is her.”

Suriel’s eyes flickered to Rhys’s, but it only lasted for a second before Rhys turned to Nyx—his breathing growing more and more difficult.

For all of the best reasons.

“Be more specific,” Suriel’s voice echoed in the room, but Rhys was a little too lost to process. “This is who?”

Rhys’s eyes fluttered closed. He leaned his forehead against his son’s.

And, at the exact same time as the man answered Commander Archeron, he breathed,

“Mama’s coming home.”

The moment the ship was on the ground and they were clear to approach was the moment Nyx moved. The moment he slipped from Rhys’s arms, and hands, and fingers—escaping the hold Rhys had tried so fucking hard to keep around him, to keep him close.

And the moment he broke into a run, too. He ran like never before; ran so fast Rhys had trouble keeping up with him; ran as if he knew exactly where he was supposed to go.

Perhaps he did.

Following behind his son and almost stumbling on his feet with his eyes trained on him, Rhys didn’t notice the door to the spaceship open.

Didn’t realize how slow the steps of the person coming out were.

Didn’t see anything other than a blurry figure in a white spacesuit—his son coming dangerously close to it as he kept running, and running, and—

“Mama!”

Nyx was only a couple of steps away from the figure when the person moved, arms slowly reaching up to remove the helmet.

He was just a step away when the helmet fell to the floor.

It all happened so fast that Rhys had a hard time keeping track.

First, Nyx collided with something—the legs of the person who’d just exited the ship.

Then, the person—Feyre—let out a choked sob. One Rhys could feel all the way down to his soul, resonating in his very being.

She fell to her knees.

And it was hard to tell, then, if it was gravity getting the best of her, or if she was actually finding it again—for she was finally reunited with her son, and wrapping him in her arms, and pressing him so fucking tight it was probably a little uncomfortable for both of them.

Rhys was beside them in just a few seconds.

He had a front-row seat to Feyre’s messy braid and her tear-streaked cheeks. A perfect view of her eyes—shut so fucking tight that it was no doubt painful.

Nyx’s arms were looped around her neck in what must have been a choking hold. Feyre didn’t seem to mind. In response, her hand was cradling the back of his head, bringing him closer and closer until it wasn’t clear who was holding who.

She was sniffling against his neck, burying her face against him as he tried to do the same, holding him as tight as he was holding her.

Rhys dropped to his knees before them.

He didn’t realize tears were streaming down his own face until he brought his own shaky hands to cup his wife’s face.

Until he met her equally glassy eyes.

And until her forehead collided with his—a magnet finally reunited with its twin. A heart finally finding its perfect match. A soul finally finding his mate.

His arms found her shoulders, her arms, her back. Pulling her close and encircling her and Nyx both.

His family, finally complete.

There were so many things he wanted to tell her.

So many words he wanted to offer.

So many questions he wanted to ask her.

Are you okay?

What happened?

We’ve missed you so much.

I love you.

Instead, Rhys brought his lips to her forehead—lingering against her skin in a not-quite kiss. Needing to see her, touch her, feel her.

He murmured,

“You’re safe.”

Against his lips, Feyre nodded slowly.

Rhys brought them—both Feyre and Nyx—a little closer to him. To his heart.

“You’re back.”

It was a strangled sound then that escaped Feyre’s mouth. Nyx sniffled against his mother’s neck.

Rhys’s eyes fluttered closed.

And finally he breathed,

“You’re home.”

There were tears, choked sounds, sobs. Rhys didn’t know from who.

Between them, Nyx’s body was tiny and fitting perfectly. Against Rhys’s neck, Feyre’s face was buried, breathing him in and finding comfort.

And in his chest, his heart was finally finding its regular rhythm—no longer looking for its missing part.

Rhys took a deep breath. One that felt a little hard.

He repeated,

“You’re home, Feyre darling.”

They didn’t part. Not when Feyre finally found the strength to stand—on shivery legs and with trembling hands. Not when she took a couple of steps—only supported by Rhys’s hand on her lower back, Nyx still looped around her neck and refusing to move anywhere else. Not when they met a relieved-looking Suriel.

And not, either, when they were brought to her office—sitting in wooden chairs in front of the Chief of NASA, hands clutched tight and refusing to let go.

Rhys listened, his eyes trained on his wife, as she started retelling the mission.

Everything was great until we neared Venus.

As she went through every single step, every single detail.

We lost signal very soon after landing on the star.

As she tangled her fingers in Nyx’s hair, the motion equally soothing for both of them, exactly as her eyes filled with tears again.

I tried everything I could. But I had no way of knowing which direction I should depart from.

And Rhys watched, too, as she slowly turned her head back to him. As her glassy eyes met his.

As she breathed,

And then, I—I started receiving the signals you sent me, Rhys. Her sniffle was messy—she tried to bury the sound in Nyx’s hair, but he moved on her lap to be able to observe her face.

I was able to find my way back home, she breathed, because you kept sending them.

Back in their home, later that night, they kept holding each other, all three of them. Rhys and Nyx kept clinging to Feyre as if it was the very last time—all while thanking every star in the sky that it wasn’t.

Nyx had fallen asleep in her arms, hands clutching her shirt tight and face buried against her—chest rising and falling at the same pace.

Rhys was no better. He was lying behind her, arms encircling her as she leaned back against his chest. His hands were warming her skin, touching and reassuring and soothing. Feeling—that she was here, that she was with them, that she was back.

And his lips—they were glued to her skin as well.

Kissing her temple, her neck, her cheek. Her brow, the corner of her mouth, that spot under her ear.

Her lips, too.

“We were so fucking scared,” he murmured against her skin, nuzzled his nose against her hair, breathed her in. “So, so fucking scared, Feyre. You have no idea.”

Gently, she moved—just enough to be able to get a little closer. Just enough to feel his breath on her lips. Just enough to press her lips against his.

Unspoken was the struggle within her.

Rhys thought he understood it anyway.

She said, “It was—so fucking hard.”

I wanted to give up, was what she didn’t have to voice.

“I’ve never felt so alone.”

I didn’t think I would make it, was her meaning.

“But I thought of you.”

Her eyes snapped up to his.

Her gorgeous, beautiful eyes. Teary and red—swollen with more than tears. Pained with something Rhys could only imagine.

She repeated,

“I thought of you.”

She nuzzled her face against his neck, but it only lasted a moment before she turned back to Nyx, bringing him a little closer to her.

Tightening her hold around this part of her.

“I thought of you,” Feyre repeated yet again, and she meant both of them. “And it had me keep going.”

Rhys blinked back tears that wouldn’t leave. He pressed a kiss to the side of her head. Dragged her a little closer. Enveloped both of them in his arms—those two people he called home. Those two souls tangled with his. Those two halves of his heart.

“We would have waited,” he breathed, “a thousand years for you to come back, Feyre darling.”

His lips pressed to her neck made her eyes flutter closed.

Made his heart slowly regain its normal pace—after months of feeling unsteady.

“We would have waited for eternity,” he continued in a breath, and absolutely meant it. “If it meant getting you back.”

“And I—” Her deep breath was weak and shivery—heavy with the emotion in her voice. Heavy tears were flooding her eyes once more—“I would have fought and kept searching, I would have—”

She trailed off, her eyes pressing tight as she turned her head toward him. When tears slowly trailed down her cheeks, Rhys leaned his forehead against hers, taking deep, steadying breaths that he matched.

“I would have torn apart the universe,” she breathed weakly—her eyes slowly opening to find his. “To get back to you.”

Rhys couldn’t argue with that. He’d been ready to tear the world to shreds, to embark on a ship himself, to spend his every last breath looking for her.

Gently, he leaned in to kiss her, nose bumping into hers, before he nuzzled it against her face and finally—finally—let his lips meet hers in a kiss. Lips slow and promising and sealing. The way Feyre kissed him back was equal parts gentle. Equal parts soft. Equal parts relieved.

When they parted, their hearts had finally found some peace.

And the smile that stretched Feyre’s lips was sad, and slow, and small. But it was her smile, and the sight of it made Rhys fall in love with her.

All over again.