Archive of Our Own

The bar was crowded that night.

At least, that’s what Feyre could tell from the clinking of glasses, and the muffled conversations, and the loud laughs, and the buzzing all around her.

She could feel it in the air, too.

It was hotter than the usual other nights. She could feel people passing by her, brushing her arm and nudging her side.

She didn’t mind—not really.

She was seated at her usual table, the one in a faraway and darkest corner Lucien always brought her to. Her sketchbook was already open in front of her, one of her hands resting casually on the page now that she’d found a blank one, and her other one was gripping her phone.

One of her headphones was still plucked in her ear, but no sound was coming out, and she knew that now, she only had to wait.

Feyre didn’t mind waiting. She’d spent a lot of time waiting, in her life.

Waiting for an appointment, waiting for someone to notice her, waiting to be heard.

She didn’t mind waiting, especially when she knew why she was here.

But she was excited, also, so after only a few minutes, she tapped her smartwatch and a second later she heard the automated voice state,

It’s eight forty nine.

Only eleven minutes to go, then.

Gently, she placed her phone on her thigh, pressing it between both her legs to keep it from falling, and fumbled with her bag. She plunged her hand inside and felt the shape of each object. Her wallet. Her bottle of water. Her keys.

When she finally found what she was looking for, she retrieved it, carefully repositioning the wrap of her bag around her shoulder and removing her thick charcoal from its holder.

“Feyre,” the nice voice from her friend caught her attention. “You want your usual drink?”

“Mh,” she turned toward the sound of his voice, offering him a smile that she guessed he returned. “Sure. Can I get olives, too?”

Lucien huffed a little laugh, “Yes, ma’am.” There was a pause, but she didn’t hear him walking away. “You gonna draw again tonight?”

She shrugged a little, although she knew damn well she would.

“I could introduce him to you, you know?” he asked when she didn’t reply. “He’s quite nice.”

“No,” she said dismissively. “It’s okay.”

Again, Lucien paused, and then she felt his hand on her shoulder giving the slightest squeeze.

“I’ll bring you your gin,” he said.

“And—”

“—and your olives,” he laughed. “Yes, Feyre.”

She chuckled a little, and through the noises of the crowd she couldn’t be sure, but she assumed he had left.

With the hand that was still holding her sketchbook open, she applied some pressure to the page, trying to keep it flat, and pressed the button on her watch again.

It’s eight fifty seven, the voice in her ear told her.

Her stomach was already stirring in anticipation.

And suddenly, she wasn’t so happy about the crowd, and the cheers, and the conversations around her, because she wanted to make sure she would be able to hear correctly.

Gently, she removed the headphones from her ear and placed it on her thighs as well, rolling her charcoal in her hand.

And then—the world stopped.

Or it seemed like it did, at least.

The conversations quieted down, and it felt like the whole room was holding its breath—or maybe it was only her.

“Here,” Lucien’s voice was back next to her and she had to shush him to be able to hear the voice on the microphone. She still didn’t hear anything, because her friend laughed as he continued,

“Wow, Feyre. I know you like him but—”

She lifted a hand, this time, to place on her friend’s mouth and silence him more efficiently.

Feyre missed, though, her hand finding his neck instead, but he stopped talking anyway and through the soft sound of his chuckle, she heard,

“—Mister Knight on the piano tonight.”

Very loud claps and cheers were heard after that, before silence enveloped them again.

Gently, she felt Lucien’s hand take her own, and brought it on the table in front of her, wrapping it around something round, and cold.

A glass.

“The olives are right next to it,” he murmured.

She smiled, and barely thanked him, before the music started.

And she was lost.

Notes and harmonies and sounds that spoke directly to her heart were composing the best melody she had ever heard.

She pressed her eyelids closed—it didn’t make a difference, really, but it did make her feel more immersed. More enthralled.

Feyre didn’t move at first. She never did for the first piece.

But when the notes slowed down, and faded, she gripped her charcoal a little tighter, and made it hover above her open page.

She started drawing at the first sound that followed, and didn’t stop until the music stopped playing altogether, probably more than an hour later.

By the time the applause was blasting loud in her ears, and the cheers almost felt overwhelming, Feyre had not taken a single gulp of her glass.

She leaned back in her chair, positioning the charcoal carefully on the table, and gently used her right hand to brush her fingers on the page she had now filled with drawings.

Shapes and forms she could make out clearly in her head. In her imagination.

Her paper was thick, and the crayon she was using, too–creating a texture she could subtly note against the page. She traced each line, trying to get a view—a sense of what she had spent the better part of an hour drawing.

And just like any other time, what should be the most satisfying part, was for her the most frustrating one.

The noises of the bar had filled her ears, once more, and were as loud as her mind.

She took a deep breath to keep her thoughts in check, and was about to snap her sketchbook closed in a surge of frustration, when she heard a voice beside her,

“Hello.”

A man.

A deep, velvety voice that made her fight a shiver with how low it was.

“May I?”

She turned her head in the direction of that voice, but she had no idea what, exactly, she was supposed to acquiesce to.

Feyre was used to making educated guesses, though. He probably wanted to take a vacant chair in front of her and bring it to another table with him.

She cleared her throat, “Sure.”

Instead of the screeching and footsteps she was so sure she’d hear, she only heard shuffling.

And then, his voice again,

“I’m sorry,” he said, chuckling a little, the sound almost as melodic as the piano pieces she had listened to all evening. “I don’t uh—” If Feyre had to guess, she’d say his hand was running through his hair. At least, that’s how she was picturing him—whatever he looked like. “I don’t usually do this,” he said.

She felt both her eyebrows rise.

There was one beat of silence, two, before she said,

“Do what?”

Feyre could swear she could hear the smile in his voice as he said, “This. Come talk to a stranger.”

The snort that escaped her was a little amused, and absolutely uncontrolled.

“See,” she said, placing her hand, palm flat on her sketchbook. “That’s exactly what I would say every single time I go talk to a stranger.”

She heard the slightest crack of wood, before he spoke again.

“Why, Darling, you don’t think I’m being truthful?”

His voice sounded closer, now, so she assumed he had leaned closer, probably resting his arms or elbows on the table.

Just a little closer, and she would be able to feel his breath on her face.

“I wouldn’t know,” she shrugged. “I don’t usually trust people I don’t know.”

“Mh,” he dragged out the sound a little too long, and that drew a smile from her. An amused and entertained smile. “Well,” he said. “In that case, hello,” he paused.

She didn’t know what, exactly, he was waiting for, but when she didn’t react, he chuckled.

“Ouch,” he said. Gently, she felt a featherlight touch on her finger—the one that was still resting on her sketchbook—and he lifted it with two of his to gently shake.

Like he would shake her hand.

Like he had tried to shake her hand.

A blush made its way on her cheeks at the realization.

He didn’t seem the tiniest bit bothered, though.

“You’re going to make me work for it,” he said. “Alright.”

She rolled her eyes—the motion giving her a little discomfort in the process but she ignored it—and lifted her hand to present him.

At least, she hoped that’s what it looked like.

And apparently it was, because half a second later, he gently took it, his palm wide and warm against hers, and gave a light squeeze and a little shake.

“Let me do this again,” he said, not letting go of her hand. “Hello. I’m Rhys.”

“Hi,” she grinned. “I’m Feyre.”

“Feyre,” he echoed, in a breath. “Fey-rah. It sounds like a melody.”

She huffed a little embarrassed laugh, and made to remove her hand, but he gave it the slightest tug to keep her there. She could still remove it, she knew, but she didn’t.

She wasn’t sure she wanted to.

“It’s a beautiful name,” he murmured, voice soft. “Just as beautiful as its bearer.”

“You’re such a shameless flirt.”

She had meant for her voice to be teasing, playful. Accusing.

Instead, it came out weak, and slow. Soft, even.

“Maybe,” he allowed. He gently lifted her hand and dragged it toward him, until she felt the warmth, and gentleness of his lips on it in a featherlight kiss. “But I’m only telling the truth.”

It was a wonder, truly, that her cheeks were not catching fire with how hot they felt. With how strongly they were burning her skin.

He finally let go of her hand, dragging his fingers all the way on her palm until she felt the loss of the touch. She had absolutely lost track of what little she had gathered about her surroundings by now, so her arm fell a little and she felt the weight of her glass falling even before she heard the sound.

“Shit,” she breathed, instantly trying to reach out to her sketchbook to save it.

“Crisis averted,” the man—Rhys—said reassuringly. “Wouldn’t want your book to get destroyed.”

A little strangled noise left her lips as she closed it.

“I was wondering what it was, actually,” he said softly after a few seconds of silence. “If maybe you want to share?”

“Oh,” she bit her lower lip, before she said, “It’s just—stuff.”

“Stuff,” he repeated, his voice sounding amused. “I like stuff. Stuff is nice.” She laughed a little laugh and he continued, “I didn’t want to pry. I was just wondering. I’ve noticed you were always here. Doing—stuff.”

Could her cheeks flush even further?

She wasn’t sure it was even possible.

“You noticed,” she repeated slowly. “That I was here.”

It wasn’t a question—at least not exactly. She didn’t make her voice inquisitive and didn’t expect him to respond when he had already given her her answer.

But he said, anyway,

“I have. I see you every week, at that same table,” he paused. “Doing stuff.”

“That could be anyone,” she countered. You can’t know for sure it’s me.”

“Oh, but Darling, I know.”

She shook her head slowly. She couldn’t believe him.

Didn’t want to believe him, because he was just flirting.

Shamelessly so, at that.

“It’s true, though,” he continued. “I know, because I find it very interesting, that everybody is coming here to listen to some ridiculous music for an hour. Everybody is looking right at the stage, and holding their breaths, perfectly unmoving, and yet, here you are, every single week, in your little darkened corner. Doing—stuff.”

Feyre rolled her lips together.

She wondered if he realized.

Wondered if he knew she didn’t have a choice, but not to look.

She guessed not.

“Just thought that was intriguing,” he said in a murmur. “I really like being intrigued.”

Feyre knew her grin was wide. She knew it, because she could feel the exhaustion, and the hurt from the stretch in her cheeks, but she couldn’t help it.

She would never admit it to him, but no matter how shameless he was, no matter how flirty and probably exaggerated it was, she found it cute.

Very cute.

She was no stranger to flirty men. She was no stranger to men in general, either.

But never had someone she’d met in a bar made her laugh so openly, or managed to crack her shell so easily.

Especially in the last couple of years.

It was almost scary.

“Are you here every Thursday?” She asked after what was probably too long. “To listen to him?”

There was a pause—an almost hesitant one—and then,

“I am.”

“Even if you think his music is ridiculous?”

Rhys huffed a little laugh.

“I mean,” he said. “I guess everything is subjective.”

“Mh.”

“What do you think?”

“I think—” she paused, thinking. “I think I’ve never heard such beautiful music. I come here every week for him. To listen to him.”

Again he paused.

For longer than what she felt comfortable with.

She could still hear the noises of the bar all around them—music blasting loud and giggles and crowds—but all she could focus on was him.

His silence, rather.

After what felt like an eternity—the equivalent of a full song, maybe—he said,

“I’m glad you enjoy it.”

His voice sounded a little heavier than before, but maybe she was imagining it.

“Even though you don’t?” she countered.

“Even then.”

Slowly, she bent her head a little downwards. She still had a hand on her sketchbook, thumb toying with one corner.

“The—stuff I’m doing,” she said. “It’s—”

“Hey, Feyre,” Lucien’s voice cut in. “I’m sorry to interrupt. I’m all done for the night. You coming or staying here?”

“Oh,” she straightened. Cleared her throat a little in embarrassment. “Yes. I’m—coming.”

She shouldn’t feel disappointed about it.

Right?

Lucien huffed a little laugh, and pointed out, “You didn’t even eat your olives.”

He was already reaching for her stuff, she knew, and she was very grateful, because she had lost track of everything by now. She didn’t know exactly where her charcoal was, or if she had forgotten anything else on the table.

Didn’t want to fumble with her stuff and give away too much to the stranger in front of her.

She handed Lucien her bag wordlessly so he could put everything back in it.

“I’m sorry,” she said turning back to where she had guessed Rhys was sitting. “I—”

“No worries,” he answered, the smile very loud in his voice. “It’s alright.”

She got up from her stool, biting her lower lip again, and with one last bold—or stupid—move, she said,

“Will you be here next Thursday?”

“Of course I will,” he said. And then, as if he couldn’t help himself. “Feyre.”

“Then I’ll tell you next week,” she said, grinning. “What stuff I do when I’m here.”

There was no way to hear a smile widen on somebody’s lips.

And yet, Feyre could have sworn that’s what was happening right now.

“See you Thursday, Feyre darling,” he said. “I can’t wait.”

She offered him one last smile, before she felt Lucien’s hand on her arm, silently guiding her out of the bar.

When they were out of reach, she said, before her friend could say anything,

“Shut up. I don’t want to hear it.”

Her friend’s small laugh was the only thing she heard of him.

Of course, she was the one to bend her own rule.

She was the one who couldn’t stop thinking, or talking, or mentioning him.

Lucien and her were good friends—best friends, even. And he knew her inside and out.

He had known her at her lowest, had helped her through the worst hardship of her life, and still managed to help her, every single day.

It helped, too, that he was engaged to her sister. Because then she could see him every day, even during family dinners, and she never got enough of her friend.

But knowing someone that well also meant he knew how her mind worked, and sometimes, she wasn’t so happy about that.

“I don’t want to talk about him,” she said, a little more firmly, for maybe the upteenth time. “I really don’t.”

Her hand was tucked in the crook of his arm, and she could feel the nice autumn breeze on her face.

“Right,” he said, half chuckling. Gently, he tugged right and she understood, following the movement wordlessly. “You’re the one who won’t shut up about him.”

Feyre didn’t even try to pretend.

He had a good point.

She let out a deep, exhausted sigh.

“It was just very nice,” she allowed finally, “to be with someone who didn’t realize I was—“

“Feyre,” he cut in softly.

“It’s fine,” she shook her head a little. They’d had the same conversation a thousand times, and she didn’t want to have it again. He probably knew it, too. “It was just nice.”

Lucien was silent for one beat, two, as they kept walking slowly.

Eventually he said,

“Do you want me to tell you what he looks like?”

She thought about it.

Long and hard.

To be quite honest, she had thought about it before. She’d thought about it every single day for the last three days.

Because Lucien had seen things she could never see of that man, and maybe she should take advantage of that.

Maybe she could ask him for a detailed, extended description of every inch of the man that she hadn’t been able to get out of her head.

But also—maybe she’d seen things Lucien hadn’t been able to see in him.

Because she’d seen his smile, and seen his amusement, and seen his gentleness. She’d seen all of this, just by listening to him.

“No,” she answered eventually. “Please don’t.”

With her arm tucked in his, she could feel her friend nod—an old habit—before he said,

“Alright.”

Lucien stopped walking, and she assumed they had reached a bench in the park.

She said,

“Do you think he’ll come back?“

Lucien’s laugh was disbelieving and amused, but she couldn’t understand why.

“Of course he’ll come back.”

“You can’t know for sure. You can’t—“

“Feyre,” Lucien cut her off. “Of course he’ll be back. He’s the—“

But Lucien never got to finish his sentence, because his phone started ringing.

He accepted the call with a quick excuse, and Feyre leaned back on the bench, trying to tune him out and focus on the nice feeling of the wind on her face instead.

The following Thursday, Feyre tried not to be giddy with anticipation before going to the bar.

She tried not to pay too much mind to the clothes she was choosing—feeling the texture and material of each one until she found a piece she was comfortable in.

Until she found a piece she knew—or at least, she’d been told—she looked gorgeous in.

Like every other Thursday, Lucien was at her door in no time, but the knowing smile in his voice was so very clear.

“You’re impatient,” he accused.

“I’m not,” she shook her head, coming up to her living room table to reach for the supplies she had prepared a little earlier.

She let her palms wander, feeling the shape and texture of each item. Her sketchbook, her charcoal holder. Her wallet and phone and headphones. Her keys.

Once she was satisfied with each one, she grabbed the bag she had placed beside it and started slowly filling it with her belongings.

Lucien waited patiently, perfectly still and silent behind her.

She needed to focus for this—lest she was distracted and forgot something—and he knew it.

Feyre was adding the last item to her bag when she talked again,

“I can Uber to the bar, you know.”

But of course he knew. She told him the exact same thing almost every Thursday.

“I know,” he said gently. “But you and I both go to the same place. So you don’t have to.”

She let it slide. He had a good point.

“Come on,” he said, gently placing his hand on her lower back to guide her out.

She didn’t need his help to get out of her apartment—not exactly. She knew it like the back of her hand, by now, and could easily navigate through it.

But it was nice, too. To not have to use the cane she hated so much. To not have to be so careful and aware of your surroundings, sometimes. To be able to lean on someone.

She tried not to be disappointed.

Not when Lucien brought her to her usual table, asking if she’d like her usual drink and she said no.

Not when, as she always did, she removed her sketchbook from her bag to place it in front of her.

Not when she stubbornly left her phone and headphones inside of her bag, for once.

And not when the music started.

She tried not to be disappointed, and after a few piano pieces had been played—the music at least easing and soothing and appeasing her like nothing else could—she gently retrieved her charcoal from her bag, too. She hadn’t retrieved it before, because she had thought maybe she wouldn’t draw, tonight.

She had thought maybe she would spend the night talking, instead.

So she tried to not be disappointed, and instead, started to draw to the music that was filling her ears, and her heart, and her soul.

Feyre kept drawing long after the music had stopped playing. Long after the cheers, and whistles, and claps had faded.

She kept drawing, tuning out the rest of the world, which is why she was violently startled when she heard a voice next to her,

“Fancy seeing you here, darling.”

And she knew that voice.

Velvety, deep again. She couldn’t control the smile tugging at her lips.

Feyre bit her lower lip for one beat, two.

“Took you long enough to find me,” she said. “For someone who said he couldn’t wait last week.”

She gently closed her sketchbook, placing her charcoal carefully on it.

Rhys huffed a little laugh, and said, “I thought you wanted to enjoy the music alone. I wouldn’t want to interrupt the most beautiful music you have ever heard.”

His tone was mocking, but gentle, and she knew he wasn’t making fun of her, not really. He was only trying to laugh with her.

And he was successful.

“Shut up,” she chuckled. “I come here every week because I like his music. I’d argue you’re the freak for coming here every week even though you don’t.”

He laughed, more outwardly this time, and she heard the screeching of a chair, followed by a little shuffling, and she felt her cheeks flush at the sound.

Maybe she should have invited him to sit down. She was sure anyone else would have. Anyone else would have thought about it, because anyone else would have noticed he’d still been standing.

She bit the insides of her cheeks to keep her feeling of uneasiness in check.

Rhys had gone silent again beside her, and she felt her cheeks flush even further.

She hated this. Hated this feeling of inadequacy and frustration. Hated feeling—knowing—she was missing out on cues, no matter how hard she tried to make up for it. 

But there was only so much she could do–only so much her other senses could make up for.

“Do you—” Rhys said, cleared his throat, and continued, “Do you want to share a drink?”

Every single thought died on her mind at that.

“What?”

“Last week,” he continued, and he sounded a little unsure of himself, all of a sudden. “You had a drink. Do you want to share one tonight? It’s on me.”

Feyre had to pause again, at the unexpected. At the hope, too, because if she was being absolutely honest, there was a reason why she hadn’t asked Lucien for her usual order.

But Rhys must have taken her silence for a quiet rebuttal, or for uneasiness, because he continued talking,

“We don’t have to, of course,” he said. “It’s only if you’re interested. I just thought it’d be nice. But we don’t have to—”

She laughed—a little thing at first, but it turned wilder by the minute.

He was rambling. Absolutely, undeniably rambling.

She couldn’t help but find it very cute.

“Are you making fun of me, Feyre darling?” he asked, amused, after some time. “That’s not very nice of you.”

“Sorry,” she said, even though her smile was still wide and even she could hear it in her own voice. “That was just—” she laughed again.

She felt him give the slightest tap—featherlight and gentle—on her nose, and that sobered her up quickly.

But it did nothing to ease her smile, because it seemed like every single thing that man did managed to make her melt.

She wasn’t sure that was a good thing.

After a few more moments, Feyre cleared her throat.

“So,” she said. “What kind of drink are you offering?”

“Mh,” Rhys dragged out the sound, and she could have sworn he was doing it on purpose, if only to amuse her again. It worked, of course. “There’s a drink they’re selling here that’s called loneliness,” he said.

Both her eyebrows shot up at that.

“Loneliness?” she asked, disbelieving.

Lucien had been working here for almost two years now, and never had he mentioned any cocktails named that way.

“Yes,” Rhys confirmed. “But there’s one single rule for that drink,” he said. Her smile was back on her face even before he continued, “It’s that you can’t drink it alone.”

She huffed, “Oh?”

“Mh,” the way his voice shifted made her think he was nodding his head. “Very very serious rule. It means once we start, Feyre darling, we’re bound to this table, to those chairs, until we’re both done with the drinks.”

“Ah,” she cocked her head to the side. “Pity. I didn’t intend to stay with you that long.”

“Ouch,” it was his turn to chuckle. “You wound me.”

Feyre nibbled at her lower lip, the smile on her face still clear and broad and honest, before she allowed,

“You better find those drinks fast,” she said. “Because I have a curfew.”

“A la Cinderella?”

A loud—and absolutely unexpected this time—laugh escaped her. How did that man manage to get to her every single time?

“Of a sort,” she said when she’d managed to turn a little more serious. “Unlike her, I don’t like mice, though.”

“Pity,” he countered, almost sounding disappointed. “Remind me to never bring you to my place, then.”

Her laugh, this time, was a little more forced and a little less genuine.

Not because the thought hadn’t made her laugh—it had, truly.

But because what he had implied had made—yet again—her cheeks burn a little.

And, to add to it, it had made her realize that, no. Should he invite her, she wouldn’t remind him of that.

Should he invite her, she’d almost certainly say yes.

What was wrong with her?

When she was silent for a beat too long, she heard him move again in front of her, before he said, “What would you enjoy?”

She nearly choked with her own saliva.

“What?”

“To drink,” he amended, tone equal parts smug and bashful. Which didn’t make any sense, but he sounded both. “What would you like me to bring you to drink?”

“Ah,” she bit her lower lip for one beat, and that was enough to let her mind freak out in the slightest.

She was allowing a stranger to bring her a drink.

Bring her a drink she wouldn’t be able to lay her eyes on.

And, in addition to that, she’d have to reveal herself a little more to him.

Because there was no way she was reaching for the drink he would surely set on the table without appearing hesitant, and stumbling.

After what was absolutely way too long of a pause, she said,

“You can ask for Lucien at the bar,” she nodded, more to herself than to him. That was the smartest thing to do. “He’ll know what I like.”

Rhys was silent for half a second, and she almost thought she hadn’t heard him leave, before he said—his voice a tidy bit quieter, now,

“Am I overstepping?”

It would be a lie to say she wasn’t surprised at the question. She had to think about it—about what he meant—before she said,

“With Lucien?”

Beside her, he hummed his confirmation—a very low sound.

“He’s my sister‘s fiancé,” she said, maybe a little faster than necessary.

And it was absolutely ridiculous.

She never had referred to Lucien as her sister‘s fiancé.

Because, even though he was, he had been her friend—her very close friend—for way longer than he’d been her sister‘s fiancé, or boyfriend, or lover, or anything, really.

“And a really good friend,” she added, a small smile dancing on her lips. “But there’s nothing here.”

“Good,” he murmured eventually, and she hadn’t realized he was so close beside her. Hadn’t realized he had moved at all. “I would have hated to make you fall out of love with him.”

His tone was smug, and playful, and amused, and his blatant words and shameless flirting made her giggle.

Outwardly giggle, just like when she was seven, and her sisters were snuggling on both her sides on her too-tiny bed. Giggle like when she was five and her father was tickling her stomach until she couldn’t bear it. Giggle like when she was two and she thought her mother’s grimaces were the funniest thing in the whole world.

He made her giggle, and she was the first one surprised.

When she finally sobered up, she said, shaking her head a little,

“You should stop being so sure of yourself and go get me my Loneliness, mister I-hate-the-player-but-I-come-here-anyway.”

“Yes ma’am,” he said, the grin clear on his voice. “Remember though, you can’t drink it alone.”

And somehow, she knew she wouldn’t.

She knew she was on for one long, long night.

And she was right.

Rhys was only away for a few minutes, before he was back, claiming her friend would bring the glasses when they were ready.

She couldn’t be more grateful to Lucien—he would bring the glasses, and make sure she could easily place hers in the process.

What followed after that was a few hours of never-ending conversation, and uncontrollable laughs, and smiling way too much.

She had finished her drink way too fast, and she guessed he did too, but neither of them mentioned it.

They talked about everything. They talked about nothing.

He was thirty-two, she was twenty-nine.

He was from Illyria, she had grown up here in Prythian.

He loved this bar, but not only because he knew the manager, and she loved this bar, but not only because she loved the piano player.

He was very close to his cousin, and they, along with his two best friends—brothers in everything but in blood—were his family. She had two sisters, and that was it.

He had lost his sister and mother young, and she’d lost both her parents.

He flirted, never stopped, but the way he talked, and the way she could hear him smile, or chuckle, or turn serious sometimes told her how honest he was being. How much she could trust him—and somehow she did. She trusted him, even when she didn’t really know him.

She guessed it was late, when he said,

“I think your friend doesn’t want to interrupt. But I believe he’s waiting for you.”

And she knew it was probably the truth. She had guessed Lucien’s shift had ended a little while ago, but he hadn’t come to ask her to leave.

“Oh,” she tried not to sound too disappointed. “What time is it, anyway?”

“It’s almost three in the morning.”

She should have felt guilt. Should have felt embarrassed, and sorry, and shy.

She couldn’t make herself, though.

The night she’d had was frankly the best she had had in a very long time.

Feyre hadn’t felt this normal for so long. She couldn’t make herself blush even if she tried.

But she still had to go, and she knew it. He probably knew it, too.

“I hadn’t realized,” she said softly, straightening a little. She turned her head in the direction she knew the bar was in, hoping Lucien would catch her movement and understand, because she had no way of knowing if he was really there behind her.

“Will you be here again next week?” Rhys asked, his voice sounding almost hopeful.

She was nodding her head even before she answered, “Of course. I’m here every Thursday.”

“In that case,” he said, “I’ll see you next Thursday, darling. And this time, I really want to hear about the stuff you’re doing when you’re here.”

She had absolutely forgotten about her sketchbook, and the fact that she was supposed to tell him about it, tonight.

And she wondered, briefly, if he had forgotten about it as well, or if he’d simply chosen not to mention it because it gave him the opening to invite her again.

She didn’t mind, either way.

Rhys said, “I’ll come find you when the music stops.”

She nodded, and the thought appeased her.

At least she wouldn’t be disappointed if he didn’t show up before that.

“You good to go?” Lucien’s voice made its way to her ears. Feyre knew she should say yes, but everything made her want to say no instead.

She only tipped her head in a nod to keep her mouth from betraying her.

Once again, Lucien gathered her items swiftly, and if Rhys found it weird, he didn’t say.

Instead, he offered,

“I’ll see you on Thursday, Feyre darling.”

This dance continued for a while. For more than a month, she’d spent her Thursday nights with him.

She always loved Thursday nights—at least she had ever since she’d found this bar and this music. But they were just all the more better, now.

On the sixth night, though, she decided she should tell him.

She should tell him the whole story– her whole story–if only because she wanted to ask him out. Wanted to meet with him away from this bar and its loud noise, and its dark corners—and she wouldn’t be able to do that before he knew.

So when he showed up that night, she felt her heartbeat quicken and her stomach stir in anticipation.

Feyre didn’t want to talk about it. But she didn’t think she had a choice.

She didn’t say anything, at first. Didn’t mention she would like more, didn’t offer anything about herself. And the night was almost normal—save for her fast heartbeat, and her buzzing mind.

He talked about her sketchbook—she’d told him on the third night, and he would always go back to mentioning it, every chance he got—and talked about his sister, and talked about her love for music.

And when he fell silent—a comfortable silence, not an awkward one; it was never awkward between them—she took a deep breath. Counted to ten. Pressed her eyelids shut tight for one beat, two, three, and finally said,

“I have to tell you something.”

Rhys took a second to answer.

“Are you breaking up with me, Feyre darling?”

The comment—as ridiculous and funny as it was—only made her grimace.

They weren’t anything to break up. But—she’d be lying if she said she didn’t expect him to lose interest in her after what she was about to tell him.

When she was silent for a little too long, she heard him shift a little, before she felt a soft—almost hesitant—touch on her hand. It was resting on the table, gripping her glass a little too tightly, and Rhys enveloped it gently with his own broader hand.

“I was kidding,” he said. “You can tell me anything.” He paused, and then, “I do hope whatever you have to tell me won’t mean I don’t get to meet with you again.”

She really, truly hoped so, too.

And it shouldn’t be such a big deal–shouldn’t be such a worry, for her, to come out just like she was. And yet–she’d been proven wrong before. She’d learned–the hard way–that it wasn’t that simple.

Feyre took a deep breath.

“No, I—“ she gently removed her hand, placing it on her lap, if only because his touch was burning her skin. “I wanted to ask you something. But I also have to tell you something first.”

“I’m all ears,” he said simply. “You can say, and ask anything.”

“I—“ She felt her cheeks flush, burn, melt her skin. Without realizing it, she had closed her eyes again, and her hand had started playing with the ends of her hair. “I—I’m not—like everyone else,” she said eventually.

She heard him open his mouth to speak—what she was sure would be a flirty remark, because she knew him by now—but she shook her head.

“I mean it. I don’t—My eyes—“ she let out a long sigh. “I can’t see anything.”

Rhys fell silent across from her, and she braced herself.

For the rejection, the disgust, the disinterest.

The disappointment she didn’t want to hear in his voice.

After what felt like an eternity, he said,

“You’re blind.”

His voice was soft, though, and it was probably even worse.

“Visually impaired, is what my doctor calls it,” she said slowly. “But, yes. Blind will do.”

She tried not to sound spiteful, angry, sad. She wasn’t sure she had managed.

When Rhys talked again, it was in a murmur.

A very low, very slow murmur.

“I knew, Feyre.”

She wasn’t sure why, exactly, her heart skipped a beat.

“What?”

“I knew,” he repeated. “I noticed. I—didn’t know exactly. It’s very dark in here, and you do a very good job at hiding it, too. But I knew.”

He knew.

He had noticed.

He knew.

And he had still showed up, day after day.

She didn’t know what to make of that particular information.

“You knew,” she repeated, slowly. “And you don’t care?”

“Why in the hell would I care?”

He almost sounded disbelieving, uncomprehending.

As if the mere thought was absolutely not making any sense, to him.

“Feyre,” he said, his voice impossibly soft. “Of course I don’t care.”

She swallowed. Her hand had stopped playing with her hair and fell, palm flat on her chest. Feeling the unsteady beat of her heart.

“Why didn’t you say anything?” She murmured.

At that, Rhys paused. It wasn’t a long pause, but when he spoke again, his voice was a little hesitant.

“I didn’t think it was my place to say anything.”

She blinked.

And blinked.

And blinked.

She’d met people, so many people. Judging and curious and out of place. Nice people too, who meant well, but were always a little blunt. Always a little unsure.

How did he, of all people, seem to always know what she wanted—needed—to hear?

She bit her lower lip.

She couldn’t be bothered, anymore.

“Will you go out with me?”

Rhys seemed caught off guard—and she understood him. She hadn’t really reacted to his previous statement.

He chuckled–almost nervously, “What?”

“That’s what I wanted to ask you,” she said, smiling a little bashfully herself. “Will you go out with me? Do you want to?”

“Yes,” he said, without missing a beat. “I would absolutely love that.” The smile in his voice was clear, and Feyre couldn’t help but replicate it. “I do have something to tell you, too,” he said, “before I take you out on a date.”

“Oh,” she let her hand fall on her thigh. She bit her lower lip, refraining a smile, and said, “Are you blind, too?”

The huff that she heard from him was a little hesitant, but amused, too.

“No,” he said gently, “I’m not blind. I can see you perfectly well, believe me.”

The way he said it brought heat to her cheeks and neck and chest—and all her body, really.

He continued,

“Can I—bring you somewhere? To tell you?”

She furrowed her brows, but nodded, very slowly.

“It’s in the bar,” he amended. “And you can get your friend Lucien to come, too, if you’d like. If it makes you feel uncomfortable, it—“

She huffed a little laugh at his rambling. “It’s okay, Rhys,” she said softly. “I’ll come with you. Could you just help me to the bar? So I can tell him?”

“Of course.”

She heard his chair screech on the floor as she fumbled to reach for what she had left on the table.

Soon, she felt him beside her, gently placing a hand on her elbow and she stood next to him.

He was careful and slow in his strides, guiding her through the crowd.

“I didn’t think you’d be this tall,” she admitted after a few steps.

Rhys’s hand, that had been holding her arm, gently moved to find the small of her back instead, bringing her closer to him.

“Well,” he said. “Happy to surprise you.”

Feyre chuckled, and it was only a couple more steps before he said,

“We’re at the bar. Your friend’s serving a drink to someone, but he’s seen us.”

“Thank you,” she said, very quietly.

She felt Rhys’s hand tighten on her back, slightly, before he said, equally quiet,

“None of that.”

They stood in comfortable silence for the few minutes it took Lucien to approach, sounding a little alarmed,

“Feyre. You alright?”

“Yes,” she nodded. “Fine. I just wanted to let you know that Rhys is taking me—somewhere.”

“Backstage,” Rhys said simply. Gently. Reassuringly. “You don’t have to worry about her.”

Backstage?

She furrowed her brows, but didn’t say anything.

“Alright,” Lucien said. She swore she could hear the knowing smile she was sure danced on his lips right now. “Do you want me to wait for you?”

Feyre felt her whole body flush at the question—and it was ridiculous, really, because it didn’t exactly mean anything.

She noticed that Rhys stayed stubbornly silent beside her, probably holding his breath, and she felt herself blush even more.

“I’ll be okay,” she said finally. “I can Uber home.”

There was a beat of silence, and then,

“Alright. Enjoy your night, Feyre. See you tomorrow?”

She hummed her confirmation, already turning on her heels even though she had no idea where, exactly, she was supposed to go.

The only thing she was sure of was that she wanted to get the hell out of here, lest she combust in embarrassment.

Rhys was right next to her, guiding her steps to wherever he was taking her.

“I could also drop you off at your place, later,” he said after a couple of minutes. “But I don’t want you to feel uncomfortable.”

She rolled her lips together, but didn’t answer. Didn’t want to tell him how much not uncomfortable he made her feel.

How much she liked the idea, too.

Instead, she hummed contemplatively, and let him guide her the rest of the way in silence.

The walk wasn’t long—which wasn’t exactly surprising. He had told her it was inside the bar after all—but Rhys led her through a few doors—that she knew he held open for her—and narrow corridors, and even down a few stairs.

He was very patient, and gentle with her, always.

When he stopped finally, he asked,

“Do you want to sit? Or stand?”

She huffed a little nervous laugh.

“I’m starting to worry, you know. I thought you just had something to tell me. This seems a little extreme.”

When he withdrew his hand from her back, she had to fight a shiver from the loss of touch. She wrapped her arms around her middle, and said,

“I’ll stand.”

“Okay,” A smile was very clear in his voice. She heard his footsteps—only a couple before he stopped—and then the ruffling of fabric. “I brought you here because instead of telling you, I wanted to sh—“ he cleared his throat, and Feyre could only smile. “I mean, to—make you listen.”

“Oh?”

There was a pause, and then—

Then she heard it.

Notes and harmonies and sounds. The ones she came to that bar every Thursday night for.

The one that seemed to always speak to her heart—to her soul even, maybe.

Her heart was hammering in her chest, and it was pure instinct that drove her legs toward the sound.

Toward him, playing for her.

Each step she took was hesitant, small, tentative. But then the music stopped abruptly. She felt his hand on her arm and she guessed she had crossed the distance.

“It was you,” she breathed, lost so deep in her stupor that she didn’t hear or feel him stand up in front of her. “Why didn’t you tell me it was you?”

“Would it have changed a thing?”

Slowly, she shook her head.

No, it wouldn’t have.

She had started to fall for him before knowing it was him.

She was just so much further gone now that she knew.

“I saw you in the back one day,” he said softly. “And then, every single week I’d look for you because you were always so different from everyone else. Always drawing in your little corner.” He paused. “It took me forever to muster the courage to come talk to you.”

She offered him a half smile.

“You said the music was ridiculous.”

“Because it’s not the kind of music I love the most,” she felt his hand that was holding her arm move a little, and she assumed he had shrugged. “But it’s what people seem to like better.”

Feyre mused over his words, and his admission.

Let them sink in, let herself comprehend.

It was him.

It was him.

“Will you play for me?” She whispered—a quiet demand for a quiet desire. “Please?”

Gently, he dragged his hand from her elbow to her hand and tugged gently. He guided her to sit down, on what she assumed was the piano bench, but never released her hand.

“Can I ask you something first?” He asked when he was settled next to her.

The bench was narrow—too small for the two of them—so their knees bumped together and her thigh was flushed against his. She didn’t care one bit.

“Yes.”

“How—how do you do it? How do you draw, if you can’t see?”

“Ah,” she smiled. A small, indulgent one. “I didn’t—I wasn’t always like this,” she said. “I had an accident, about three years ago. And I lost my sight after that. But I could see before that, and I always used to draw. So I—“ she shrugged. “I only switched techniques.” She paused, and when he didn’t interrupt her, added, “I can show you, if you want?”

Rhys seemed surprised, if the tone of his voice was any indication.

“Sure,” he said, “Yes. Of course.”

She let go of his hand, reaching inside the bag that was still wrapped around her shoulder to find her sketchbook and retrieve it. She discarded her bag and let it fall on the floor in the process. With confident hands, she fumbled through it, until she found a particular page—of a particular drawing she liked.

She guided the sketchbook to rest on the piano keys, not without a little hesitation—placing it with a little more force than she had intended to, and the motion dragged an awkward sound out of the keys. She chuckled a little.

“Give me your hand,” she requested, holding out hers for him. “And close your eyes.”

Rhys placed his hand in hers wordlessly, and only waited.

“Do you have your eyes closed?” She asked after a few minutes.

“Yes.”

She turned toward him. With the hand that wasn’t holding his, she reached upwards—aiming for the top of his head, but was met with nothing instead. She darted lower, until she felt her fingers brush through his hair, and slowly darted downwards again in a featherlight touch—his forehead, his brow, his eyelids.

Closed.

“Good,” she murmured appreciatively.

She let go of him.

“Did you not trust me, Feyre darling?”

He sounded amused, smug even, at the question.

“I let you take me to a place I know nothing about, and I have no escape,” she countered softly. “I think it shows how much I do trust you, actually.”

And it was the best truth—the worst vulnerability—she knew.

His voice was dead serious when he said, “I’d never hurt you. I promise.”

She didn’t answer. But in truth, she knew.

Gently, she lifted his hand that she was still holding, and singled out one finger, using it to trace her sketch, like she had done herself a thousand times.

She let him feel each curve, each bump and twirl and movement on the page. Each line she had traced in an attempt to reproduce what had flashed in her mind.

“Wow,” Rhys said in a murmur, eventually. “That’s—wow.”

A small, shy smile spread on her lips.

“That’s absolutely brilliant,” he continued. “I never—wow, Feyre.”

She chuckled, then. Unbashful and unguarded.

“I didn’t know I could render you speechless, Mister Knight.”

He laughed. The sound as melodic as the piano pieces she loved so much.

“Oh, you can render me a lot of things, Feyre. You have no idea.”

Did her heart decide to malfunction all of a sudden?

Or was it the man beside her, messing up with her in every single way he could come up with?

There was no answer that could get past her lips.

And perhaps he knew it, too, because he offered,

“Your turn. What do you want me to play?”

Feyre thought about it. Long and hard.

But she didn’t know anything about music. Didn’t know anything other than what it made her feel, deep inside her chest.

So she asked, “Can you play me a memory?”

Instead of answering with his words, Rhys gently squeezed her hand, before he lifted it and placed a kiss to it, much like he had done that very first night.

He placed it gently on her lap, then, and reached for her other one.

Again, he lifted it, and placed it in front of her, palm flat on something hard, and cold.

The piano, she assumed?

“You’ll feel the vibrations,” he murmured beside her. “Makes the music reverberate within you.”

She didn’t answer. Didn’t really have to, either, because half a second later, after shifting a little again—and she guessed he had removed her sketchbook from the instrument—he started playing.

And she was gone.

Evaporated from the world, and absolutely—unconditionally—lost and found at the same time.

She closed her eyes, and focused on everything she could.

The sounds of the music caressing her soul, and the feel of the vibrations from the piano she could feel in every single part of her body, and the scents of him, him, him.

Everywhere. All at once.

The music was beautiful.

Notes, wrapped together in an intricate, decadent, and beautiful harmony.

She loved each piece she had ever heard from him. But this one—this one she could tell was different.

This one was him.

He loved this, she could tell.

When the music faded into silence again, they didn’t speak—not at first.

She didn’t move a single inch, didn’t withdraw her hand from where it was still resting on the piano.

She was almost panting, and she didn’t know why.

Feyre hadn’t realized a few tears had escaped from her eyes until she felt his hand on her chin, very gently turning her head toward him, before he moved to her cheek, brushing them away, slowly.

“I didn’t want to make you cry,” he murmured, voice so soft and so low and so gentle.

She shook her head. “That was beautiful. That was—“ she took a deep breath. “Thank you.”

“I wrote this for my sister,” he admitted after a few moments. “In remembrance.”

Feyre closed her eyes again, not even trying to fight her fresh tears. “Thank you.”

Rhys fell silent once more beside her, but she heard him shuffle, only slightly. She guessed he had turned to face her, and it was almost an instinct to mimic him.

“You’re—so beautiful,” he said after a few beats of their hearts. “Gorgeous, extraordinary. There are absolutely no words to describe how exquisite you are.”

Her lips tugged in a half-smile. A small, shy, one.

“That’s not fair,” she murmured. “We’re a bit uneven here. I can’t see you.”

“I wasn’t only talking about your looks, though. But—does that make you uneasy?”

Feyre paused.

It didn’t—not really.

And yet—

“I just—I really wish I could see you.”

Rhys didn’t answer.

At least, he didn’t say anything for a few seconds.

But she felt his hand gently take hers, lifting it in the air between them until she met the feeling of the soft, velvety texture of his hair. She could make out a few curls, even though it was quite short.

“My hair,” he said. “It’s black. Like—a raven.”

Feyre huffed a little laugh, as he led her hand downward. To his temple.

“My skin is—tan,” he said. “Not quite brown. But tannish, if that makes sense?” She nodded, slowly.

He moved her hand on his face, until her finger brushed just below his eye.

“My eyes are—weird.”

She giggled at that.

“Weird?”

“Mh,” he confirmed. “They’re not a usual color.”

“I don’t believe you,” she said in a chuckle.

Her finger was still brushing under his eye, in a repetitive motion, back and forth.

“I swear,” he said, amused. “They’re a very deep blue. But they look violet most of the time. And there’s a few—“ he huffed a laugh. “I don’t know. My mom used to say there were stars inside of them. Silver flecks.”

She smiled, a deep and fond smile.

A little sad, too, because that knowledge only made her want to see them more.

See him.

Images were already starting to form in her mind–of him. What she thought he looked like. What she knew he looked like. 

What she would draw him like–in her mind, on the page, and on every single surface she would find. 

He moved her hand to his nose. He didn’t say anything, this time, but let her feel its shape under her fingers. He made her dart lower again, to his lips, and his hot breath caressing her skin made her fight a shiver.

He pressed his lips into a kiss to her fingers, and that effectively drew a shudder out of her.

“And my lips are—pinkish, I guess?” He murmured.

He let go of her hand, of his own accord, but she didn’t remove hers from his skin.

Did he think she had had enough of him?

She wasn’t nearly finished.

She darted a little to the side, feeling the shape of his jaw—square and broad and darted to his neck, then.

It was his turn to shiver, before she dragged her hand down his collarbone, to his shoulder—broad and muscular—and to his arm. His bicep was big—way too big for her hand to completely wrap around it.

“I have a tattoo here,” he said quietly.

She lifted her head at the sound of his voice.

“You do?”

“Yes.”

“What’s it like?”

He paused. Paused, for longer than necessary, and she knew he was debating what to do, or what to say.

Eventually he allowed,

“It spreads from my neck, to my arm, and a side of my chest.”

Feyre didn’t even hesitate before she asked,

“Will you trace it for me?”

Maybe she should have felt shame at the request. Maybe she should have felt guilt.

But she felt none of it.

She heard his swallow.

“I will,” he said slowly. Hesitantly. “If I ever remove my shirt in front of you. I will.”

Her teeth gently nibbled at her lower lip.

She wouldn’t ask him to remove his shirt, right then.

She wouldn’t.

Instead, she asked, “Promise?”

Rhys moved. He slowly lifted his hand to her cheek, brushing his thumb over her cheekbone in a touch that was both too much and not enough at the same time.

“Promise, Feyre.”

“Okay,” she replied. Her voice wasn’t anything louder than a whisper.

They stayed a few more moments, just like this.

His thumb never stopped his motion on her cheek, and her hand never let go of his arm.

Eventually though, she was the one to move. Dragging her hand on his chest again, very slowly reaching for his torso and finding his heart beating underneath his shirt.

Beating fast.

A little too fast.

But not as fast as hers, anyway.

“If it makes you feel any better,” Rhys said, “it’s the same as yours. Our hearts are just the same.”

And she found comfort in that. Comfort in knowing that whatever she could not see, she could feel him all the same.

She took a deep breath, focusing on the not quite steady heartbeat beneath her fingers.

Before she knew what she was doing, and before she could change her mind, or bite on her tongue to stop herself, she said,

“Rhys?”

Just a murmur with how low she had said it.

“Yes?”

“Will you do something for me?”

“I would do anything for you.” The certainty in his voice was almost frightening. “What do you want?”

She paused. Just half a second. And then,

“Kiss me?”

She wasn’t sure, but she thought his heart skipped a beat under her palm.

And it was only fair, because she couldn’t tell if her own heart was still beating at all.

His hand on her face stilled, but he didn’t let go.

Instead, it darted a little lower, finding her neck and warming her throat.

She felt him, slowly, so, so slowly approach, and the anticipation was almost killing her.

Never before had she felt so many things all at once.

Ever since she’d lost her eyesight, her other senses had gotten better, she’d realized over time.

But they’d never been as aware as in that moment.

She felt like she could hear each breath he took and each beating of his heart. She could smell his scent—citrus, and rain, and salt, and delicious and perfection. She could feel his heart, and her heart, and his touch, and she could feel herself dying a little, as she waited.

But she couldn’t taste him—not yet—and that was probably the worst part.

That is, until she felt his breath, along with all of the other parts of him she could feel, and then his lips against hers.

Hesitant.

Just the slightest brush—not enough to really feel, or taste, or anything.

Not enough.

She leaned in against him, fully this time, and kissed him.

Really, truly, kissed him.

And everything around her—and inside of her—exploded.

Nothing mattered anymore—it didn’t matter that she felt inadequate, or nervous, or different. It didn’t matter that she was missing one of her senses.

Because she didn’t believe she was, anymore.

She couldn’t believe she was anything other than just like him.

Meant for him.

Our hearts are the same, he’d told her.

And maybe he had been right all along.

His lips brushed against hers, danced with hers—as slow and soft and melodic as the notes of his music, and as subtle and bold and symbolic as the shape of her drawings. As enthralling and devastating and perfect as two lost souls finding each other.

Rhys kissed her back. Kissed her like he felt the same. Like he might explode along with her—or implode with her—and either way, she didn’t care.

Didn’t care about anything, or anyone.

Only cared about his lips.

His perfect, perfect lips.

Cared about his voice—and his shaky breaths against her, and his small sighs, and his soft moans and little groans. Cared about his body—soft and hard and gentle and rough and beautiful.

Beautiful, beautiful, beautiful.

She didn’t need her eyes to know he was beautiful.

Didn’t need anything, really, other than him.

Him and his lips.

On hers, preferably.

Forever, ideally.