Chapter Text
Rhys had always been a professional. He had always kept his distance, had always done his best, even when his patients tried to push his boundaries.
He had always managed to do it, even when his own best friend was the worst at it.
And Rhys never failed to roll his eyes at him.
“I can’t believe you fucked her,” Mor scoffed. “She’s your patient and you—“
“Ex-patient,” Cassian corrected with a raised finger—as if the difference made everything right in the matter. “And I only waited until she was discharged to… agree. I don’t see where the problem is, really.”
“Same difference,” the blonde answered in a mutter. “It’s really—“
Rhys tuned them out. He felt like he had heard the very same conversation—probably too many times to count. And although a small smile was tugging at his lips from what he was overhearing, he was also very focused on the patient file he was going through right now.
17 years old.
Male.
Symptoms: chest pains, dizziness.
Medical history: no known chronic conditions. No known family history of cardiovascular disease.
Assessment: Irregular heart rhythm detected on ECG.
He kept flipping through the pages, and when he reached the last one, he closed the file with a loud thud.
“Well?” Stella asked from beside him, her teeth nibbling at her lower lip so much it must have hurt. “What do you think?”
“Could have given a little more details about the symptoms,” he said, handing her the closed file. “And I probably would have added a CT-scan, just to make sure. But you did great.”
The smile that spread his sister’s lips at his words was both bright and relieved.
“You think?”
He chuckled softly. “Yeah, Stel. Well done.”
“Are you done?” Cassian asked with a loud sigh, and this time, Rhys knew he was talking to him even before he clasped his hand on his shoulder. “We’ve been waiting for you for hours.”
And Rhys knew it, too. They had all been waiting for him to finish his shift, just so they could meet at their usual bar to celebrate, tonight.
Rhys couldn’t fucking wait.
Still, he smirked at his friend, shrugging his arm off,
“What,” he said flatly, “you couldn’t find someone to kill some time with?” When his friend’s smile turned feral, he added with an eye roll, “Preferably not a patient, Cass.”
“Oh, please,” he scoffed. “Mister I—“
But the end of Cassian’s sentence never reached his ears.
Rhys never heard the rest, because he heard a voice—one he always wanted to hear and yet would have preferred not to hear at all.
“No,” she was saying. “Something is wrong. You have to believe me.”
Nuala was sitting at her usual spot, bearing the gentle smile Rhys knew she always offered to reassure overwhelmed patients.
Overwhelmed parents.
“I’m sorry, Ma’am. But if there are no other signs than this, we can’t—“
“I’m telling you there are,” the voice was desperate.
And Rhys hated hearing anyone desperate, but this voice, especially.
He was moving before he realized.
“I’m very sorry Mrs—“
“Miss,” the woman corrected with a rougher voice than before. “It’s Miss—“
“Archeron,” Rhys filled in as he finally stepped in near them.
All three heads turned towards him.
Nuala and her apologetic face.
Miss Archeron—Feyre—and her alarmed one.
And—
“Hey there, Missy Juliet,” Rhys said softly to the child in her mother’s arms. “What’s going on with you?”
There was a silence, during which the small eyes only blinked at him.
And then, it was Nuala who said,
“I already told them we can’t—“
“We’re just leaving,” Feyre sighed—a painful sigh Rhys would have preferred not hearing. “We’re just—“
“What’s wrong?” He repeated softly, for her this time, as he met her blue-grey eyes. “What’s going on with her?”
Feyre swallowed. As if on instinct, she tightened her arms around Juliet and said, very slowly, “She’s… she’s just not—“ she shook her head, glancing at Nuala for a second before her eyes turned back to Rhys. “I know it’s… nothing. But she’s absolutely exhausted. She’s never been like this, I—“
And Rhys knew it, too.
He’d first met the pair of them a couple of months ago, when they’d been admitted for chest pains on Juliet’s part. And even in pain, the girl had been full of energy—bubbling laughter and wide smiles. Energetic with a contagious happiness Rhys had rarely seen.
And her mother—
Rhys had worked with worried parents; the ones who searched the internet for any symptoms they thought their children had and ended up somehow convinced they were the doctor here. He knew overbearing. He knew overconfident.
Feyre wasn’t.
Feyre was always quiet in her worry, always careful.
Always right, too.
If she had made the trip, it was because something was wrong.
“Let’s get you checked up,” Rhys said reassuringly with a small smile to the child—who, indeed, seemed absolutely out of strength. “Alright? Let’s get you—“
“Should I call for a nurse, Dr. Knight?”
Nuala’s voice was gentle, her hand already reaching for the phone.
And Rhys couldn’t blame her, either—with anyone else, he would have nodded, and gone back to his friends behind him.
But…
“No, I’ll take care of it, Nuala,” he flashed her a smile. “No worries. Will you tell Cassian they can go ahead without me?”
The woman nodded stiffly, but Rhys didn’t linger on it—he was already moving, gesturing for Feyre to follow after him through the corridors she already knew a little too well for his liking.
He hadn’t seen her—seen them—in a few weeks. And it was a good sign, really. The chest pains Juliet had first complained about had improved quickly with the medication he had prescribed her, and after a few regular check-ups, Rhys had deemed it safe for them to stop coming so regularly.
Feyre settled down on the bed immediately when he pushed the door open to an empty room—Juliet still tucked in her arms—and by the time they were comfortable, his reassuring smile was back.
“Okay,” he said joyfully, already reaching for a tray of medical instruments and a stool. He settled in front of the little girl in her mother’s arms. “You remember me? I’m Rhys.”
Because he wasn’t Doctor Knight to them—had insisted very early they didn’t call him that.
“Can you tell me how you’re feeling, Juliet?”
He knew how well she could speak. Knew how well she usually did, at least.
As it was, she didn’t seem able to really say anything.
After a few moments of silence, Feyre was the one to whisper,
“She’s been like that for two days. At first I thought she had just gotten a bad night of sleep, I—I stayed home with her today and it’s only gotten worse, I don’t—“
Her voice was slowly wavering, and her eyes were getting glassy very quickly.
Rhys didn’t like letting his patient’s feelings affect him.
He couldn’t always help it, either.
“Okay,” he nodded slowly. “Can you straighten a little for me?” He asked gently, “I’m gonna check your pulse. And then I’ll listen to your little heart, alright? Like last time, do you remember?”
Juliet didn’t move at all. Which, come to think of it, was also a very weird thing. She was usually quick in her movements, easy to work with because she was nodding to everything Rhys asked her to do and would do it with the brightest smile he had ever seen. As it was, she was barely keeping her eyes open.
Barely breathing, too, which he realized only too late. Her breaths were shallow, and slow, and seemed difficult.
Feyre slowly helped to remove the sweater her daughter was enveloped in, leaving her only in a light shirt, before she repositioned her on her lap, her eyes trained on Rhys and tracking his every move.
Very gently, he took hold of her little arm and placed two fingers on her pulse point.
The pulse was quiet. It was soft.
It was a little slow, too.
Rhys didn’t let the frown form on his face. Instead, he smiled a small smile and said,
“Good. Now, can I see your chest?” To emphasize his words, he tapped a gentle finger on her chest. “The heart speaks better from here.”
Her small eyes blinked at him, but she still didn’t answer. Still didn’t move a single inch.
“So,” he said as Feyre started to remove the shirt from her daughter completely. His gaze kept trained on the little girl. “It’s been a long time since I’ve seen you. Are you still loving Minnie so much?”
Feyre huffed—a very soft sound that even Rhys was surprised by. He locked eyes with her for all but a second before he turned his attention back to her daughter and reached forward.
“It might be a little cold,” Rhys announced softly as he slipped the stethoscope earpieces in his ears, not really waiting for her response. “But I need you to stay very quiet so I can listen, mh?”
She didn’t answer—and this time he wasn’t surprised. He did keep his eyes locked with hers for a second more. Juliet’s small blue-grey eyes were entirely trained on him—observing his every move diligently. She still didn’t speak, but he knew how much she was registering everything he was doing. He finally placed the end of the medical device on her chest.
And then, he listened.
He listened, but it was so damn hard—harder than it should be.
The sound was too quiet. Too soft.
Way too slow.
Rhys couldn’t let his growing worry show on his face.
“Good.” He repositioned the stethoscope, a little more to the left this time.
The sound was a little stronger.
Or, at least, Rhys could hear it a little more.
But it was nothing like he knew it should be—it was too slow, too dim, too quiet.
He didn’t want his stomach to start forming knots.
He didn’t want to start getting worried.
And he certainly didn’t want to be right, either.
“Great,” he murmured, removing the stethoscope from her skin. “Now your other side?” he asked quietly. Feyre gently turned Juliet in her arms until Rhys was faced with her back, and again, he carefully placed the stethoscope on her skin.
The sound was even harder to find now.
Fuck.
“Rapunzel.”
Juliet’s voice had been quiet. Barely audible. Barely understandable, too.
“What, Sweetheart?” Feyre asked, lowering her head closer to her daughter’s. “What did you say?”
Slowly, she repeated, “It’s Rapunzel, now,” she repeated in a breath. “I like Rapunzel.”
A small, slow smile curved Feyre’s lips as she nodded in confirmation. She brushed her hair back, but Juliet was already reaching forward and burying her head against her mother’s chest.
“I’m cold, Mama.”
“I’m done,” Rhys answered in her stead—struggling more and more to keep his easy smile on. “I’ll need to run some more tests, but you can put your sweater back on.”
Again, he met Feyre’s eyes, and it was probably a mistake, because he could swear she saw right through him. Right through his worry and his fake smile and the growing lump in his throat.
“You can settle down in the bed a little better. I’ll be right back,” he said as gently as he could. “Okay?”
Feyre’s nod was stiff. It was worried.
It was pleading, almost.
And for some reason, it was incredibly hard for Rhys to leave the room.
“You paged me?”
Rhys felt his jaw tick. Just for one second.
He didn’t answer right away, though—kept his gaze entirely focused on the machine he was preparing.
“Rhys?”
Again, he didn’t reply. His mind was a little too clouded to be able to comprehend he had to answer.
That is, until his sister placed a gentle hand on his shoulder—one that finally brought him back to why he had called her here.
He took a deep breath and finally turned to glance at her over his shoulder.
“You good?” She asked, her brows furrowed. “I saw you leave with this patient and then—”
“How well do you know how to perform an echocardiogram?” he asked, turning his gaze back toward the machine and shrugging her off.
It was clear she was frowning when she said, “Want me to call for a sonographer? I think Nuan’s on call, I could—”
“That’s not what I asked,” Rhys cut her off, rounding her to reach the other end of the room and grab a few other tools—gloves and sanitizer, and a few pads. “Do you know how to do it? Have you ever done it?”
Stella paused, observing each of Rhys’s movements with care. After a few moments, she said, “I’ve reviewed the results a few times. Never done the echocardiogram myself, though.” She paused, before adding, “I think I could do it.”
Rhys nodded pensively.
He was back near the ultrasound machine he had been prepping for a few minutes now.
When he didn’t add anything else, he heard his sister’s gentle voice say,
“Who are they?”
His eyes snapped up to hers immediately.
“You…” she continued, very softly. “You seem to care for them. The woman and the little girl who came in. So who are they?”
“It doesn’t matter who they are,” Rhys said—clearing his throat as he started cleaning the machine. “This isn’t what I asked you.”
Stella didn’t answer right away. And she was looking at him—he knew she was. But Rhys couldn’t meet her gaze.
Eventually, she said, her tone flat,
“You’re asking me to perform a procedure I’m not supposed to do,” she folded her arms over her chest, and he still wasn’t looking but he was quite sure her eyes were narrowing on him, “For a patient you shouldn’t even have been the one to check in the first place. You’re—“ she stopped, almost humming in the process. “You’re asking me to do something you’d be perfectly able to do yourself. Why, Rhys?”
“You know what,” he sighed heavily, finally straightening and pinching the bridge of his nose. “Never mind,” he said. “I’ll call someone—“
“Why can’t you do the echocardiogram yourself?”
Rhys eyed his sister.
She had always been bright—always been too smart for her own good, always asked the wrong questions at the best moments, or the best questions at the worst moments. Had always been able to understand things he had not been willing to tell her yet.
So, of course, he could have lied.
He could have pretended.
He could have given her an excuse he knew she wouldn’t have believed.
He didn’t.
He decided to offer her a semblance of the truth.
“Because I need a second opinion,” he said, and somehow her eyes only kept narrowing. He sighed. “And you’re the only person in this hospital I trust enough to do it.”
It was half a lie.
She wasn’t the only person in this hospital he trusted—of course not.
But she was also the best student he had. And she had spent the last couple of months—years, almost—shadowing not only him, but the pediatric head surgeon as well.
Which meant, if he didn’t want to page him, Stella was his next best option.
The only person he trusted enough to do this, indeed.
Her gaze softened, very slowly.
And very slowly, too, Rhys knew she understood.
His sister cocked her head to the side, her eyes almost pained now, and murmured,
“And you can’t trust your own opinion because…” Stella closed her eyes, realization hitting her just as Rhys’s heart squeezed painfully in his chest. “Because you care about them,” she finished eventually, repeating her earlier words.
And of course he did.
Of course, he did.
Not that he would admit it in so many words. Not that he would like to acknowledge it.
Not that he would be willing to accept it, either.
But he did, and he was too much of a coward to say.
“Will you help?” He asked quietly after a few minutes—a few minutes where all Stella did was look at him. Look at him and read his entire self, too.
He didn’t need her response to know she would.
Stella always did.
The smile she offered him was a little smaller, but bright all the same. She nodded to the door behind them,
“Shall we? I think presentations are in order.”
Rhys wasn’t sure he could smile the same smile as her.
Still, he nodded and took her to the room Feyre and Juliet were still waiting in.
“This is Doctor Knight,” Rhys explained when he re-entered the room, already settling on the stool before the little girl in her mother’s arms. “She’s here to help for a quick test.”
He wasn’t sure he was supposed to read the surprise—deception, too?—in Feyre’s eyes so clearly. But she hid it quickly when his eyes flickered to her blue-grey ones, and it wasn’t even a second after that Stella stepped forward, presenting her with an outstretched hand and offered,
“The sister—“ Rhys noticed the wink his sister gave Feyre as they shook hands, before she continued, “not the wife.”
Feyre huffed softly, the sound somehow making his heart beat a little faster. He cleared his throat, keeping Juliet’s gaze.
“My sister’s silly,” he said. “Still want her to look at that little heart of yours?”
When Juliet only blinked at him—sleep and exhaustion the only things he could read on her childish face—he brushed a finger gently across her cheek.
“Yeah, I know you’re very tired, Juliet,” he murmured. Feyre pulled her a little tighter against her chest, kissing the top of her head. “We’ll be quick.”
Only one look at Stella was enough for her to understand that she could proceed.
And then, Rhys watched.
He watched, silently getting up and retreating to the end of the room as Stella brought in the machine she had dragged there and began preparing Juliet. Her hands were precise, and her motions gentle.
And yet, Rhys couldn’t help it. He started thinking he should have performed the exam. He should have done it himself and made sure it was done perfectly.
He clenched his hands into fists to keep exactly where he was, and when Feyre met his gaze from across the room and offered him a sad smile, he knew it was for the best.
He was definitely not in the best position to do this.
And he knew why he had made the choice, too.
He needed to make sure.
He needed a second opinion, indeed.
He needed someone to confirm what he was already sure of—without being ready to acknowledge it.
He was right.
Of course, he was right.
He was fucking right.
Rhys couldn’t think straight.
He was standing in the radiology reading room, staring at the results—and his heart ached, but he wasn’t sure it was the reason he was feeling nauseous right now.
He had been staring at the same thing for probably way too long by now. Had been unable to move, unable to speak, unable to do anything.
“Rhys,” Stella’s voice reached his ears, but he didn’t turn to look at her. “You’re still here?”
But of course he was.
Of course he was.
Her small hand wrapped around his bicep, squeezed gently like she knew how to.
“Rhys,” she murmured. “There’s nothing you can do. There’s—“
She trailed off when he shrugged out of her grasp and moved to gather the ultrasound images he had been staring at.
He heard her sigh painfully. “What are you gonna do?”
With meticulous hands, Rhys tucked the pictures into a folder, placing them one by one. His eyes flickered to his sister’s just for a second, before darting downwards again.
Eventually, he announced—his voice steadier than he had thought it would be,
“I have to go tell her.”
Rhys still wasn’t looking at his sister, but he knew there was a frown on her face as she said,
“It’s three in the morning. You should get some sleep and—“
“I have to go tell her right now, Stel. The sooner the better.”
Stella didn’t answer. And perhaps she knew it would be no use—perhaps she knew there was no changing his mind, not when he was like that.
So she didn’t answer, and instead, she merely sighed a heavy sigh again.
She asked,
“Want me to come with?”
Rhys didn’t.
He had to do this alone.
When he arrived at the door, Rhys paused—closed his eyes, took a deep breath.
That was the part he had always hated the most.
He loved his patients. He loved the human contact, loved sharing a few things, and loved getting to know the people he was treating—up to a certain degree at least. And so, offering the bad news had always been his least favorite moment.
Had always been the thing he hated the most.
And yet, Rhys wasn’t sure he had ever hated—ever anticipated—something that much.
It was one of the reasons why he had never chosen pediatrics—he loved children, but he would never have chosen to operate on them willingly.
And he really cared for this child, too.
Another deep breath.
He had to do this.
He really had to.
And he knew he had to be the one to do this, too.
Feyre was lying down next to Juliet when he entered—brushing her fingers on her sleeping face. The six-year-old looked so peaceful Rhys almost regretted coming in right now. But as soon as Feyre lifted her hopeful eyes towards him, and as soon as her lips broke into a smile (breathtaking, life-altering), he knew he had to do this now.
He owed it to them both.
“Hey,” she murmured—barely just a breath with how low it was.
And despite everything, Rhys felt his lips slowly stretch in a grin. A small one—a painful one, too. But he wasn’t sure he could look at her and not smile.
“Hi,” he replied, equally quiet.
”I don’t know what you did,” Feyre murmured. “She’s been exhausted but restless for two days. And now she looks so… peaceful.”
Instead of approaching, Rhys simply leaned against the closed door, folding his arms over his chest—the file he was still holding tucked between two fingers.
Feyre had turned her head back to her daughter, but she had never stopped the motion of her fingers.
Rhys took the time to observe her.
He loved observing her.
Her hair was loose, for once. But he knew she would probably tie them in a messy bun at the top of her head in no time—she always did.
Her eyes—he loved her eyes—were entirely focused on her daughter, and the smile she was wearing on her lips was so pure Rhys didn’t think he could ever find one more beautiful.
She was wearing a sweater too big for her, smudged with little color stains—blues and yellows and purples. Paint, Rhys knew.
Because she was an artist.
He hadn’t dared to ask the first few times they had met. But eventually, he had—and he learned a lot of things about her, over the weeks—months—that they saw each other.
Her love for painting and drawing was one of them.
She didn’t call herself an artist—she had laughed outright at him the first time he had used the word.
But he knew she was one.
He saw it in her.
It was everywhere—in the way she was always carrying a sketchbook with her, and usually took it out of her bag when she had to wait somewhere. In the way she was scribbling on every single piece of paper he had ever seen her with—a medical invoice he had given her or a coffee sleeve, or a receipt. In the way she was looking—and seeing—the beauty everywhere she went.
In the way she was using her hands right now—almost as if painting with just her fingers on her daughter’s face.
So every time they came to the hospital, Rhys learned and collected every new piece of information about her—them—and it wasn’t even a struggle for his mind to remember every detail.
He had seen them so much over the last couple of months, in fact, that Feyre had teased one day, that she was seeing him more than her current date.
Rhys hadn’t been sure he should have answered with a wink of his own and a less than sly, I didn’t know I had competition. But he hadn’t lingered on it, either, because her answering laugh and the slight blush on her cheeks had taken his breath away.
The teasing and flirting had been incessant ever since.
“Thank you,” Feyre’s quiet voice caught his attention again, bringing him back to the present. He glanced up to find her eyes already looking back at him.
Rhys hated the sound of the words on her mouth. He hated them, because he was quite sure she wouldn’t mean them for long.
Still, she continued,
“Thank you for—” She turned her head back to her daughter, her fingers never stopping the soothing motion. “For believing me. For checking her up. For…” Again, Feyre’s eyes flickered to his just for a second. “For not giving up on her.”
He swallowed when she stopped talking.
Of course, he didn’t give up on her.
He wouldn’t.
“So,” she continued with a huff, her eyes finding him again, but her lips stretching into a smile a little more teasing now. “I’m glad I could meet… Not your wife, Doctor Knight.”
The only smile Rhys managed was a small and sad one. He cleared his throat, finally straightening from his spot against the door to take several steps towards her.
“I already told you you can call me Rhys,” he said finally—his voice a little lower than he had expected.
The way Feyre’s eyes shone with mischief made Rhys want to do… so many things, really.
“I think I like Doctor Knight better,” she mused, a smile still dancing on her lips. “It has a really nice ring to it.”
And she was teasing, too, he knew. But Rhys couldn’t bring himself to laugh right now. He stopped walking as soon as he reached the end of Juliet’s bed.
“Rhys,” he murmured. “Just Rhys.”
He didn’t know if something in his voice had betrayed him—or if perhaps Feyre had read his thoughts even before he was able to voice them.
Either way, her head turned towards him once more, and this time she simply… Observed him. She searched his face for one, two, three beats. He saw the way her smile dropped and the way her eyebrows slowly furrowed. He saw, too, the way she stopped brushing her hand on Juliet’s face.
She swallowed, just before she asked,
“What is it?”
Rhys’s eyes jumped from hers, to Juliet, still asleep beside her—then back to Feyre’s again. He offered,
“Come walk with me?”
But perhaps it wasn’t the good thing to say, because Feyre straightened, worry more and more evident on her features as she repeated,
“What is it, Rhys?”
This time, Rhys dropped his facade, too. He dropped his semblance of smile, and he dropped his reassuring expression, too.
“Come walk with me, Feyre,” he murmured again—not a question this time. “Alright?”
He motioned for her to start walking as soon as she closed the door carefully behind her—and she did, even though he knew, by the look in her eyes, that she would be asking him what was wrong in just a few seconds.
Before she could, he murmured,
“Let’s grab a coffee at the cafeteria,” He watched as her throat bobbed with her swallow—a clear disapproval if he had ever seen one. “It’ll be empty at this time of night. We can talk there.”
Whether she wanted coffee of not, Rhys didn’t know. But Feyre followed him without a word, and she waited patiently at the table he pointed her as he ordered for the both of them. He returned quickly, setting a paper cup her way.
“Black with no sugar, right?” He tried, wishing she could slowly relax.
Of course, she didn’t. She didn’t answer, she didn’t move.
She didn’t tear her eyes away from him either, as she said—almost an order,
“Tell me.”
Rhys was nodding—almost sadly—even before he took a deep breath. The deepest breath he had ever taken, perhaps.
His eyes found his cup of coffee before he started,
“We got the test results back, we—” Rhys wrapped his hand around the cup—just an excuse to keep his hands busy, really—and let his thumb start playing with the lid.
He didn’t know why this was so difficult.
He was a doctor—a surgeon.
And a damn good one at that.
The best heart surgeon in the country, the hospital prided itself on.
The best heart surgeon in the whole world, his sister liked to joke.
A damn good fucking doctor, indeed.
So he should be able to do this.
Really, he should be.
“When you came here earlier,” Rhys tried in the best professional voice he could muster, “You said your daughter was experiencing—” He shook his head. “Heavy fatigue. Exhaustion. She was… She was also breathing with a little difficulty. And when I—When I listened to her heart, I thought I heard a…”
Rhys closed his eyes.
It really shouldn’t be this fucking hard, indeed.
“A murmur,” he said finally. “I thought I heard a murmur in her heart.”
He took a deep breath—yet again.
When he opened his eyes again, he still pointedly ignored Feyre’s… Feyre’s everything, really.
He didn’t want to see her right now. He didn’t want to see her face, and he didn’t want to see her expression. He didn’t want to see her eyes, either.
Especially not her eyes.
“That’s why I asked Stella to do an echo,” he explained. “I—I needed her to do an echocardiogram because I needed to make sure but it just—I just—” Rhys trailed off, running a hand over his face. “Fuck, Feyre, I really didn’t want to be right.”
He heard her whisper—and her voice was breaking, and difficult, and painful.
“I don’t understand, Rhys, I don’t—”
She trailed off, and Rhys was still not looking at her, but he knew she was shaking her head slowly. So slowly.
He felt her hand gently wrap around his wrist, warming his skin, and she whispered, almost a plea,
“Real words, Rhys. Please.”
Rhys finally met her gaze at that.
He met her gaze, and just like he had thought he would, he found her eyes…
Scared. Desperate.
Teary, too.
But pleading.
Trusting.
She was trusting him.
And he felt like he was letting her down.
Rhys swallowed, but never broke her gaze, even as he said,
“A murmur is a… It’s a…” He sighed. “You paint, right?”
Feyre nodded, very slowly.
“Think of it as… A whole bunch of dust in your paint. It’s there, always mixing with the paint you’re trying to use, and it makes it uneven, it—” He paused, then continued, “It’s making everything very messy and… And hard to mix with your other paints, too.” Feyre blinked at him, very slowly. He couldn’t be sure he was making any sense. Yet, he was quite certain she understood him. “And you could try to remove it, right?” he continued. “You could try to, but it’s just… Inside the tube of paint. It’s everywhere. So you just—you can’t.”
Again, Rhys paused.
Though this time was more to let the words sink in—to let Feyre understand what he was trying to tell her.
After a few moments, he began talking again, but his voice was a little quieter now.
“The murmur is when you first notice the dust, Feyre,” he said. “When you first notice your paint is flowing… wrong. But the echo, it… It confirmed there is dust… everywhere. I wanted my sister to do it because I wanted a second opinion on… On what I had already guessed.”
Feyre’s eyes were still brimming with tears by the time he stopped talking.
And he hated it.
He hated the fact that he was causing them—causing her pain and worry and fear.
“What—” Her voice—frail, weak, difficult—caught in her throat when she tried to speak. “What is it?” she asked. “What—What is wrong with her?”
Gently, Rhys moved his arm and repositioned it so he wasn’t holding the coffee cup anymore, but her hand.
“It’s called Dilated Cardiomyopathy,” he finally said, the words feeling like ash in his mouth. “It’s… It’s a heart condition. Her heart is… It’s a little too big. And a little too weak. It explains… Everything, Feyre. The chest pains several months ago, and the fatigue, too. Her…” he squeezed her hand in his very gently. “Her heart is struggling to pump the blood she needs. And every time it tries to, it gets a little… weaker. So she gets weaker, too.”
When a single tear trailed down her cheek, Rhys could do nothing but track it down.
He swore his own heart was failing at the sight.
“We’ll try medication,” he announced. “It has proven quite efficient in… Some cases. So we’ll try that.”
“But not all,” Feyre guessed, voice raw. Rhys only held her gaze. “It’s not efficient in all cases,” she repeated. “So what—what happens if it doesn’t work for her?”
There it was.
The moment he had been fearing the most.
The reality he didn’t want to face.
The very words that were making him sick to his stomach.
Rhys managed to keep his calm—at least as much as he could anyway.
And he kept his voice as steady as he could when he said—the exact words he had wanted to avoid,
“Then…” he sighed. “Don’t… panic, okay?” he waited for her nod to continue. “This is not something we’re considering right now. But if… If the medication doesn’t prove to be working and if we have no other options, we—” Rhys sighed again, and he wasn’t sure he should show her how much he was struggling with this, too. “We might have to put her on the transplant list.”
“The—” Feyre’s eyelids were fluttering as quickly as a butterfly’s wings. “The—” Again, her voice broke and with it, Rhys’s heart. “The transplant list?”
Her sentence had ended in a strangled and wailed sound, because the words had stayed stuck in her throat.
Rhys felt equally distraught. Equally shaken. Equally hurt.
He enveloped his other hand around Feyre’s—warming it and providing the comfort he hoped he could provide—and tried to reassure,
“We’re not there yet, Feyre. Maybe she won’t—”
“Transplant list,” she repeated. “Transplant, as in—” her voice was still so frail and so broken it made something deep inside Rhys crack with it. “As in heart transplant?”
Several tears fell from her eyes at that—one, two, three, four, five—and Rhys wanted to catch each and every one of them. Wanted to brush them off her beautiful face. Wanted to kiss them away.
He nodded his head slowly.
“That would be the worst-case scenario,” he said—wishing his voice to be a little steadier than he felt. “We’re not in the worst-case scenario, yet.”
And yet, it already felt like a very—very—bad case scenario.
A strangled whine escaped Feyre, and there was no counting her tears then, with how many had started to fall like raindrops on her cheeks. She removed her hand from Rhys (and he felt naked the moment she pulled away, but he didn’t linger on that fact), and brought both her hands on her face—hiding it.
Hiding it from him, or from the room they were in, or from the world, he didn’t know.
All he knew was that he wanted to chase after her.
Chase after her, and envelop her in his arms, and protect her from all the pain this world could provide. All he knew was that he wanted to reach out—perhaps brush her tears away, tell her it was going to be okay.
All he knew was that he wanted to be there for her.
That he wanted to treat her exactly like a doctor shouldn’t treat his patients.
That he wanted to be there for her in the only way he shouldn’t.
Rhys took another deep breath, and when that wasn’t enough to clear his head, he took a few gulps of his coffee.
This would at least help keep him awake. Even if it couldn’t really keep him thinking straight.
Feyre still hadn’t touched her cup when she finally straightened—excruciatingly long seconds, or minutes, or hours after—using her hands to meticulously brush each and every single one of her tears. Rhys observed her with pained eyes.
“I’m very sorry, Feyre,” he murmured. “I’m just… very sorry.”
A new tear escaped at his words, but Feyre brushed it away immediately—almost angrily. Her eyes flickered up to his—blue-grey forming a deep ocean with how wet they were—and she kept her hand brushing on her cheek although Rhys couldn‘t see any new tears, now.
“The medication,” she rasped instead, keeping her eyes locked with his. “When do we start? When—when can we—“
She trailed off, shaking her head, and kept brushing her hands on her cheeks.
“She’s just had a dose earlier tonight,” he explained, his voice as reassuring a he could. “After the blood test. It was… one of the tests we had to run. She seems to respond well to it.”
Feyre only sniffled in response.
He continued,
“We’ll keep her there for the night. You can sleep in her room with her, and we’ll talk in the morning. We’ll have some more tests to run, and then if everything goes as well as I think it will, you can go home with the medication. We’ll schedule regular check-ups, but—she can—She can go back home and live a normal life.”
Across from him, Feyre nodded. Her eyes were still blurry and her cheeks were still red, but she was looking at him with so much trust that Rhys wanted to live up to it.
She asked,
“And if she still has…” She shook her head slowly. “Pains? Or trouble breathing? Or—or—“
“I’ll give you a list of symptoms to watch for,” Rhys assured. “I’ll tell you what to look for. And you’ll come in the hospital often, okay? You won’t—“ he hesitated, but then said, “You won’t be alone for this.”
Rhys really wished it was true.
He really wished she would let him make this true.
When she didn’t answer—didn’t speak, didn’t move, didn’t react—Rhys tried, his voice quiet now, even as the cafeteria was slowly starting to fill in with more and more people.
“You should try and get some rest, Feyre,” Despite his better judgement, his bigger hand somehow found hers again, gently wrapping around both of them. “At least stay with her, even if you can’t sleep.”
Feyre nodded, but again, she didn’t move.
And they stayed like that—their gazes locked and their hands touching, as if it would perhaps help… everything, really.
Help Juliet get better and help the world heal. Help their hearts get through this, too.
Eventually, Rhys was the one who moved. He cleared his throat and straightened, and she was quick to follow after him.
He took both his now-empty cup of coffee and her still-untouched one before he started walking in the direction of Juliet’s room.
The walk back was a little more crowded—people were running all around and speaking and laughing. Interns and nurses were throwing smiles at him and greeting him, but all Rhys could muster was a prompt nod or a glance.
And beside him, Feyre had never been this silent. Her head was bent low, and her strides were slow.
Rhys stopped before the closed door, leaning against it.
“Hey,” he murmured. “We do not worry until we have to,” he paused. His hands were still both wrapped around the coffee cups, but he used a single finger to brush away a strand of hair from her face.
She had not tied it in a bun, he realized. He had been convinced she would.
But he didn’t complain. A part of him loved it loose.
Feyre cleared her throat, perhaps with a little more difficulty than she should, when he dropped his hand.
“Will you—“ she tried again, “Will you tell me?” She asked, her voice broken and pained. “When I have to start worrying? Will you tell me immediately?”
Rhys really hoped he wouldn’t have to.
He really hoped they wouldn’t get to that point—not ever.
Still, he tipped his head in a nod.
“Of course,” he assured. “Promise.”
Somehow, that seemed to make her relax—just slightly.
Her shoulders sagged, and her face softened. Her eyes fluttered closed, too, as if she had needed the reassurance all along.
The reassurance that he would tell her.
The reassurance that she didn’t have to worry until he told her.
She kept her eyes closed for one, two, three seconds.
Rhys was aware of the looks. Of the quiet conversations around them. Of the whispers and the quizzical glances, too.
He couldn’t care less.
When Feyre opened her eyes again, he saw a fierceness he had rarely seen in a patient.
She was determined—and she was hopeful, too.
Determined to be hopeful, perhaps.
Her lips slowly stretched in a half-smile.
Half, because it was nowhere near the smiles she usually offered him.
Half, because it was sad, too.
Half, because of course, it was only half a smile.
And yet, she said—her voice a little teasing, despite everything,
“I have to say, that’s not how I pictured our first date.”
Rhys didn't control his huff, “No?”
“No,” her smile softened a little. “Not exactly.”
“I’ll try to do better for the second one,” Rhys offered with a wink. “Promise. But hey—“ he nodded to the door behind her. “I walked you back to your door. That’s usually a good sign, isn’t it?”
The chuckle that left her lips seemed to surprise even herself. Rhys could have drowned in her chuckle.
But there was also a sadness in her face—one Rhys knew wouldn’t go away so easily.
He cocked his head to the side.
“Go get some sleep, Feyre. Okay?”
The tears were back in her eyes, but none of them fell. She was nodding even before she breathed,
“Yeah.”
But she still didn’t move, and Rhys thought maybe she wouldn’t until he did so he gave her one last smile—sad, pained, broken—before he took a step back and started to walk away from her.
“Rhys.”
He turned back to her like a magnet—like an instinct, like finding her was second-nature.
“Thank you,” she repeated her earlier words. “We—we called 911 and tried two clinics before we came here. They all told me to stop worrying and go home.”
This time, a tear fell. She chased it immediately, frowning.
“So, thank you.”
But Rhys didn’t want her thank you.
He didn’t want to hear it—he wasn’t sure he deserved it.
“So?” Stella asked when she sat down on the couch next to him. “How’d it go?”
Rhys didn’t answer—a low grumble leaving his throat instead.
He felt a weight bump into him—into his shoulder, though it made his whole body move, really.
“Come on,” Stella pushed. “Tell me.”
“Let me sleep,” Rhys grumbled instead.
And he meant it, too.
If only he had been able to.
“Please,” she said—and Rhys couldn’t see her with his eyes closed, but he was certain his sister was rolling her eyes dramatically. “You won’t be able to. Not after that.”
And of course, she had a point.
Rhys had tried to fall asleep for the past twenty minutes.
It was no use.
And for once, he couldn’t even blame the hospital couch he had found to sit on or the break room flickering lights. He couldn’t even blame the adrenaline of a surgery or the coffee boiling in his veins with how many cups he had been drinking all day.
No, today, all he could blame for his inability to fall asleep was himself.
His thoughts, rather.
And the two sets of eyes—blue-grey, of course—he saw every single time he closed his.