Chapter Text
Looking in the mirror above his bathroom sink, Rhysand Chevalier felt the curves of his jaw, wondering if he should do as his cousin suggested and get rid of the stubble. After glancing at the watch on his wrist, he decided that he didn’t have enough time that morning, and would face her scorn one more day.
Working with Morrigan was a delight and a trial, but Rhys wouldn’t have it any other way. Walking into his office every morning he was sure to find her perched on the edge of his desk, nose buried in files and ready to tell him exactly what was wrong with his subsidiaries and foreign branches, and what she was going to do to fix all of his problems. She could just fix them without so many details, but Morrigan wanted him to know exactly how hard she was working, proving that she was worth every dollar and every annual raise he gave her.
After being seated at his desk, coffee hot and ready, Rhys would, at turns, expect to hear from Cassian, Azriel, and Amren, though communication from Az would likely come via messenger. They were his colleagues and his friends, more like family than his actual family had been. And they were the reason that he was able to gather energy to step foot out of his front door every day. They were his bulwark against the storm that was Velaris, and the only group of people he could rely upon.
A rather chilly relationship with his next door neighbor, however, had never seemed capable of remedy. Various overtures had been made, drinks mulled over and evenings spent together musing over what it was like to be captains of industry and lords of all they surveyed. But nothing would bring Rhys into a closer friendship with the person who slept and lived and dreamed on the other side of the wall separating their apartments.
Scrutinizing himself in the mirror, Rhys shrugged. If he was honest, his neighbor was an asshole, anyway. No love lost, there. There would, however, be a much bigger problem if he was late for his meeting with Kallias. Pushing back from the sink, Rhysand ran a towel over his face and threw it on the counter before turning towards his closet. Running a finger from one black suit to another, he pulled one from its hanger and completed his morning ritual of preparing for work.
Stepping out of his door, Rhysand’s thoughts were too full recounting his tasks for the day to remember such mundane items as keys. As the door clicked shut behind him, he let out a quiet curse. He might have had his keys with him, or he might have left them in the ceramic tray just on the other side of the door, inches away yet impossible to reach.
Wondering how much later he would be to work, Rhysand turned around as he patted his clothing. He worked his way through the series of pockets in his wool coat and reminded himself to thank Mor for the gift she’d given him on Starfall. She’d hinted that it was from some special tailor on the Continent and quite expensive, and Rhysand wondered if they had charged by the pocket.
Giving up on his coat and reaching to his pants pocket, Rhysand finally felt the outline of his keys and murmured, “there you are.”
Looking down as he was, distracted by the fear that he had just locked himself out of his apartment, he couldn’t see the woman who had just turned a corner. Even if he had known he wasn’t alone, he wasn’t prepared to be run into by a rather large box.
“Oh, shit!” A woman took a step away from him, or rather bounced off of him as they collided. She was rather disheveled, and could barely see over the box she carried.
“I’ve been looking for you,” Rhysand said, pulling his keys from his pocket, then he blinked and refocused his attention on the woman he had accidentally spoken to. Her face was free of makeup and she wore plain clothing made of a simple homespun shirt and pants. Certainly she didn’t look like one of the residents of that exclusive address, and Rhysand wondered how she had found her way to his front door.
“I’m so sorry,” she said before dropping the box with a grunt. Pushing loose strands of hair from her face, she glanced around the hallway, making note of the numbers on his front door.
“Can I help you?” Rhys slid his keys back into his pocket and leaned against the frame of his front door, cocking his head inquisitively.
“I’m looking for apartment 1020?” The woman seemed utterly lost, which told Rhysand that she wasn’t from Velaris. She shoved her hands into the back pockets of her pants and rocked back on her heels, telling him that even if she was new to town, she wasn’t so naive as to trust a stranger.
Rhysand tilted his head the direction of the only other door in the hallway, opposite from his own door and the ornate stairwell that led to his floor. “It’s down there. You can’t miss it.”
“Oh.” Her shoulders slumped and she kneeled down with a sigh, readying herself to pick up the box again. “Thanks.”
She wasn’t dressed in uniform, so she wasn’t delivering anything. His neighbor wasn’t known for bringing women around, not that Rhysand was familiar with his friends or acquaintances. Their hallway tended to remain quiet, and so the sight of someone new was the sort of thing Mor would be hounding him about if she knew.
But then there was something else about the woman that intrigued him. A cautious bravery, like a bird one might spook or provoke to defend herself, depending on how she was handled. Her too-thin frame and messy pony tail didn’t fit in with the polished, moneyed inhabitants of the building. He doubted any of them had even seen clothing such as she wore, and she didn’t hold her nose in the air in the way that seemed bred into his acquaintances.
Rhysand looked down at the box she had dropped. A hurried scrawl on the side read “paints”. Like she was moving in. And if she was heading towards that door…
“Would you like some help?” Rhysand kicked himself for offering, but he was already late. Mor would just have to wait to share the office gossip, though she’d probably kick him harder for not learning more about a mysterious stranger moving in next door.
The woman looked up at him, an eyebrow raised. “And ruin your fancy suit?” She placed her palms on her knees and the corner of her mouth quirked up. Rhysand wasn’t sure if he she was making fun of him, but wanted to figure out what else would make her smile.
Rhysand looked down at himself. “Oh, right. It seemed heavy.” He reconsidered his tactic. “Well, at least tell me your name so I know who I have the pleasure of being assaulted by.”
“I’m Feyre Archeron. Call me Feyre.” She stood again and reached a steady hand out to him. “And you are?”
“Rhysand Chevalier.” He reached up to take her hand, noting the large diamond on one finger.
Feyre’s face darkened and her eyebrows narrowed as they shook hands. “And do you live here?”
“Indeed I do.” He gestured to the door behind him. Rhysand was used to having a certain reputation in the city, but he wasn’t used to being disappointed that it preceded him. Not when it made a lovely woman look at him like that.
Scrambling for another topic, Rhysand asked, “do you paint?”
“What?” Feyre blinked and glanced around. “Oh, yeah. Yes, I do. I am experimenting with different techniques at the moment.” She took a step closer to him. “I haven’t really had the chance before, supplies being limited and expensive and I never really had a teacher. I was using my sisters as models for a while, though Elain can never sit still long enough and Nesta thinks I should be spending my time on something more productive. But anyway they are still back home so I’m mostly working on still-life at the moment, though I might work with landscapes, something with the night sky and the view from the apartment once I’m able to see it and find a good angle.” Her mouth clamped shut, stopping the flow of words that had appeared to be waiting for the opportunity to spill from her.
“Well I don’t know technique myself, but I have quite a collection of art if you’d like to see it sometime. It’s on loan at the museum, ” Rhys explained, “and I can take you after hours.”
Feyre hesitated and looked down the hallway at the door that was her destination. “I’m not sure that’s a good idea.”
“If you’d prefer to go alone I can let the director know,” Rhysand countered.
She frowned, but didn’t reply.
From the marble steps nearby they heard the clicking of heels. Feyre wiped her palms on her pants and pasted a bright smile on her face. The exhaustion slid away from her expression as if she hadn’t worn herself out carrying that box of paints up several flights of stairs.
Stalking up the steps one at a time was Rhysand’s neighbor. He usually looked disdainful of everything and everyone who had the misfortune of encountering him, but for once, Tamlin’s face lit up when he noticed Feyre in the hallway.
That was, until he saw who she was standing next to. His pace remained the same, steady and measured, and Rhysand’s posture straightened in defense.
Tamlin nodded his head at Rhys in barely-perceptible greeting before he turned to Feyre and matched her smile.
“Feyre,” Tamlin said, pulling her into an embrace that coincidentally pulled her a few feet farther away from Rhysand. He held her for a moment until she patted his shoulder.
“I see you’ve met the neighbors,” Tamlin said. “Well, neighbor. Rhysand here lives alone.”
Rhysand caught the slight sneer in Tamlin’s voice and had to keep from rolling his eyes. But it cut a bit deeper now, that Tamlin could find someone while he remained alone.
“Yes, I ran into him, literally, and that’s it. We had only just learned each other’s names when you walked up.” Feyre glanced at Rhysand, waiting for him to corroborate her story.
“Yes,” Rhysand said, “I was just on my way to work when I met your new roommate.”
Tamlin’s nostrils flared. “Fiancée,” he corrected. Keeping an arm around her waist, he toed the box of paint supplies that remained on the floor. “I thought I told you I’d get someone to do that for you.”
“I know,” Feyre said, pulling away from Tamlin. “I wanted to carry these things myself. No one else knows how I want it organized and I needed to do an inventory anyway.”
Feyre knelt down to close the panels of the box that had opened when it hit the floor, touching it reverently before standing again. “You have your way, Tamlin, and I have mine.”
“I am the same way about my clothes,” Rhysand said, trying to lighten the mood. “There are shades of black, after all. And one mustn’t mix casual ties in with business ties and formal ties.” He and Feyre exchanged a small laugh.
“Feyre.” Tamlin held a hand out to her, heedless of the box that sat at her feet. He curled his fingers inwards in a beckoning motion. “Come. Lucien will have someone pick that up for you.” His nostrils flared in annoyance and he finally looked towards Rhysand. “Don’t you have some important managing to do,” Tamlin asked, his voice clipped.
“Indeed. Feyre.” Rhysand held his hand out to her. Hesitating, she glanced at Tamlin before accepting the friendly handshake. “It was lovely meeting you.”
“You as well.”
Tamlin took Feyre’s elbow to lead her away, and Rhysand turned towards the stairwell, torn between the feeling that she needed rescuing and the confusion that came with the impulse.
Mor had likely sent out a search party by that point, and he patted his pocket one last time to stall himself in front of his door as Tamlin and Feyre walked away, heads bowed and voices fierce and hushed. Tamlin’s door closed behind them, and Rhysand wished he could see through the wood, and knowing it would be wiser to leave his neighbors to their own business.