Chapter Text
“What do you want to be when we grow up?”
Feyre’s eyes were shining in the night. And her voice was soft in the whisper she offered him,
“I want to fly and reach the stars.”
A part of him already knew it—as enamored as he’d always been of the stars, Feyre had been, too.
It had been the exact thing that had made them become friends, at first. The science project Rhys had spent countless hours working on would definitely not have been the same without Feyre stumbling on him in the physics lab one day, her smile turning shy the moment she noticed what he was working on.
“Space?” she’d asked him, a little breathless as she approached on quiet feet.
Rhys had no idea of her name. He loved her smile anyway.
“I’m creating the solar system,” he’d offered, brows easing from his frown when he’d met her eyes. “And I’m—“
“Jupiter shouldn’t be orange.”
He’d paused.
“Huh?”
“Jupiter,” Feyre repeated with furrowed brows, taking a few steps towards him and reaching for the planet Rhys had left on the lab bench. “It shouldn’t be orange.”
And before Rhys could process her words, Feyre was reaching for one of his brushes, mixing up some colors he would have never chosen himself, and started coloring the planet he had already painted the night before.
So truly, a part of Rhys already knew her job of choice would be to fly up to the stars.
Still, in the quiet of his bedroom—and in the comfort of his space-patterned bedsheets and in the reassurance of his star-filled wallpaper, he asked, his smile soft and his voice teasing,
“Like a bird?”
Feyre had giggled—all nine years old and white teeth of her.
“No,” she snorted, straightening on his bed and turning to be able to look at the window.
And at the stars they could both see.
“Like an Astronaut.”
“Stop studying.”
“I have to.”
“No, you don’t.”
“Yes, I—“
“Rhys.“
Feyre’s voice was a little exasperated.
“You’re the best of our class in physics. And in maths,” Rhys couldn’t really see her, from where he was bent over his desk, but he knew she was rolling her eyes. “You’ll rock this test.”
He threw a glance over his shoulder—to stick her tongue at her, really, but ended up distracted by the sight of her.
She was on her stomach on his bed, legs lifted to rest against the wall before her, and head thrown back over the edge.
To look at the ceiling in his bedroom, Rhys knew.
She always loved to look at his ceiling.
“Did you study?” he asked, voice quiet but amused as he kept watching her.
Kept watching the small freckles he could see becoming more and more elegant on her face. Kept watching her eyes and how they were absolutely oblivious to anything around her, when she was so focused on something else. Kept watching her legs, too. Bare on his wall, and looking like they went on for miles and miles.
Kept watching her denim shorts and the too-big NASA tee-shirt she’d insisted on buying in a thrift store one day, hiding the overwhelming evidence that she was growing up—as much as a fifteen-year-old was, anyway.
Kept watching all of her, and wondered if he should smile that much at the sight.
“What?”
Rhys blinked out of it—at least he tried. Without realizing, he’d been biting off the end of his pen as he’d watched—stared—but he stopped the moment her eyes met his, and her furrowed brows looked at him as if he’d gotten caught.
“Did you study?” Rhys repeated his earlier question. “For the test?”
“I am right now.”
At that, Rhys laughed—he fucking laughed, and absolutely adored the way Feyre’s smile stretched her lips in amusement.
“What?” She asked again, half-heartedly—the question sheepish and her smile teasing.
And perhaps he shouldn’t have, but it made Rhys‘s smile turn even softer.
He pushed from his desk, took a few steps toward her, and crouched down right in front of her head, still upside-down on the bed. Feyre tracked his every movement with a smile.
Rhys pointed at the ceiling with a single finger, chuckling.
“This,” he said, “is not studying.”
“It is,” Feyre countered, her smile only widening with mischief.
“Nope.”
“It is,” she insisted. “Look.”
And as if he didn’t know what was on his ceiling—As if he didn’t know exactly what she was looking at, Rhys shifted to sit on the floor, obeying—his back meeting the bed and his head leaning backward to rest on it, upside down but mere inches from where hers was.
And he looked at his ceiling.
This same ceiling they had spent hours looking at.
This same ceiling Feyre had always been interested in—back when they were kids and he had glued little glow-in-the-dark stars.
This same ceiling they had custom-made when they were eleven—countless hours spent hand-painting it with dark midnight blue and a star-like silver, and so many details that Rhys had lost count.
The one he’d pretended to paint with her when really, Feyre was doing all the painting and drawing and perfection. The one they’d done in his room, simply because they both knew Feyre’s parents would have never agreed. The one they’d started on a Saturday afternoon and had finished with wide smiles and exhausted laughs in the middle of the night—the one they probably should have gotten in trouble for, but had received his mom’s praise instead.
So they both stared at the ceiling. Both watched all the details Feyre had put in it, watched all the magnificence she had managed to pour into it.
And both pretended it’d help them for the test tomorrow.
Eventually, Feyre murmured,
“I could stay here watching this for hours.”
And Rhys knew—god, he knew. He slowly turned his head on the bed until he could watch her instead.
He didn’t dare speak the words. But he could stay like this, watching her for hours.
Still, he teased,
“You think I don’t know that?”
Feyre giggled, though it was soft.
When she sobered up, her smile slowly faltering, she turned her head to his, too.
They were still upside down, and they were still so close Rhys could feel her breath on his skin.
His whole body could feel it, really.
Feyre asked,
“Why are you so stressed about the test, Rhys?”
And with her eyes boring into his, and with her voice so soft, Rhys couldn’t find it in himself to avoid her question. And yet he wasn’t sure he could find it in himself to be entirely truthful, either.
So he answered,
“I’m stressed for every test.”
Half a lie. She knew it, too. And indeed,
“Tell me the real reason.”
Rhys took a deep breath at that.
And just for the sake of having his heart beat a little less erratically, he turned his head back toward the ceiling, escaping the burning of her stare.
“The results of this test will determine if I qualify to enter the Science club,” he enunciated quietly what his teacher had told him two days ago.
There was a pause. And Rhys could have sworn he knew what she was about to answer even before she said,
“All of this for a Science club?”
Rhys huffed, a little quietly. And just because he couldn’t hold it, he flicked her nose gently—the motion earning him a frown and a quiet shriek.
“No, smartass,” he teased, then leaned his cheek against the bed. This time, he held her gaze as he explained, “Entering the club means having a shot at being selected for the National Scientific Program.”
Realization flickered in Feyre’s gaze, and Rhys guessed she knew what he meant even before he continued,
“And entering the National Scientific Program means getting a shot at getting selected for—“
“For the Astrophysics thing you want to do at uni?”
Feyre had straightened on one elbow as she’d spoken—her face no longer teasing but still observing him with so much understanding, Rhys felt a little bare.
He confirmed, “Yeah.” He took a deep breath, then continued, “Not only a scholarship, but—but being selected to get in. Starting the program in Illyria even before high school ends and being amongst the—I don’t know, the… maybe twenty people in our country who get to go there.”
In his chest, Rhys’s heart was thundering. And perhaps he should have minded, but he’d realized lately how it was often thundering.
Especially when Feyre was around.
He was startled when she moved, straightening entirely from the bed and rising to her toes. Rhys watched frowning, and he immediately held up a hand for her when he noticed she paused in her steps with her eyes closed—probably because the world was spinning, he knew. Feyre always got up a little too fast.
It only lasted a minute before she let go of his hand and reached for the notebook on Rhys’s desk.
“Alright,” she announced. “Let’s study, then.”
Rhys chuckled.
“What?”
“Let’s study,” she repeated, lifting the book in her hands in emphasis. “I’m testing you.”
Rhys snorted at so much determination in her words.
“You don’t have to do that,” he countered. “You didn’t want to study.”
“No,” she agreed as she plopped down next to him. “But you really want this. It’s important to you, so,” again, she lifted the book in emphasis and smiled at him—a soft smile he swore he could feel deep in him. “We’re studying.”
Rhys couldn’t find anything to counter this with.
Still, he leaned in and placed a kiss on the side of her head carelessly.
And he’d done it many times—yet somehow, that day, it felt different.
It felt different because his heart did.
“I can’t believe you’re leaving.”
“We,” Rhys corrected her, both his hands on her shoulders, “are leaving, Feyre.”
And the thought made him want to grimace, too, but he didn’t let it show. He offered her his best smile instead.
With gentle hands, he repositioned the scarf around her neck and then arranged her hair over it. He knew Feyre was glaring at him, but he didn’t stop to check.
“You’re leaving.”
And there was a pout on her lips now, yet Rhys tried very hard to ignore it.
He was failing, too.
“I,” he offered gently, quietly, “will only be gone a few weeks before you leave as well.”
“Rhys.”
Well.
That’s all it took for Rhys’s eyes to snap up to hers.
And as they did, he saw all the struggle in her eyes. He sighed heavily.
“It’ll be okay,” he tried, his voice quiet.
“Three months.”
“I—“
“Three months, Rhys,” she repeated, a little breathless now. And Rhys tried, but he failed, once more, to ignore the emotion gathering in her eyes in the shape of tears. His heart squeezed painfully in his chest at the sight. “You’ll be gone for three months.”
He tried to offer her a soft smile.
“Three months,” he agreed. “What’s three little months in the span of a lifetime?”
Her blue-grey eyes, glassy and wet with tears just a second before, turned into a downright glare. Rhys sighed a deep sigh at the sight.
“I promised you I’d be back for graduation,” he continued with a gentle smile. “And then you start university, too, Feyre,” he tried quietly. “And—“
“And we’ll be even further apart.”
And the thought broke his heart as much as it seemed to break hers.
Rhys cocked his head to the side, his smile no longer on his lips when he pulled her toward him and enveloped her in his arms. Feyre came willingly, burying her head in the crook of his neck.
“It’s what you’ve always wanted to do, Feyre,” he reminded her, his heart thundering in his chest at so many feelings pulling him in very different directions. “Studying Aerospace Engineering will bring you one step closer to—“
“I know,” she countered. “I just—I just wish it didn’t have to be this far from you.”
And Rhys felt that all the way down to the marrow of his bones.
“I’ll always be there,” he told her instead. “Even when I’m abroad. I’ll always be there.”
When Feyre slowly pulled her face away from him—her eyes still red and her cheeks slightly wet, the sight broke something in him.
He had half a mind to tell her,
Never mind.
Half a mind to tell her,
I’m not going.
Half a mind to tell her,
I’ll stay here with you.
He didn’t. But his eyes flickered down—just for a second. Landing on her mouth, and on the way she wet her lips, and on the way she swallowed.
On the way he wanted—desperately so—to do something very stupid.
Rhys was in love with her.
He had first thought about it the day Feyre had come over a little breathless, her chest heaving and her eyes wide, and told him that she needed him to help her with her Science Assignment because, Nobody understands me like you do, and I can’t put this into words.
Had realized it the day he didn’t see her in school and learned she’d stayed home sick—only to skip school, sneak into her house in the middle of the day, and find her watching the launch of the space mission she’d been telling him about for months.
Had admitted it to himself the day she’d kissed a guy at school and he’d felt his heart hurt so deep in his chest that he’d thought he might be sick—and then, a little later, the moment he’d been overwhelmed by such a cold and white anger when he’d been told the guy had cheated on her with another girl.
So Rhys was in love with her.
He thought it had been inevitable, perhaps. All this time they’d spent together, all those memories they’d made, and these promises they’d shared.
Perhaps he’d always been bound to fall for her.
He just wished—selfishly so—that his love wasn’t so unrequited.
But it was, and Rhys knew it. And if he was truthful, it was one of the reasons he’d accepted the early admission program in Windhaven. He couldn’t spend his life waiting for her to fall for him when he knew she didn’t see him as anything other than her childhood friend.
So he’d accepted the program abroad, and he was very excited about it—astrophysics had always been his field of choice, and he absolutely loved it, too. He would have been able to study it anywhere, but the thought of having Feyre away from him…
It was a weird thing to describe.
Kind of like a drug he needed to get rid of—a substance he needed to get out of his system, an intoxication he needed to heal from.
His own personal rehab.
No matter how gut-wrenching leaving her made him feel.
And as his eyes flickered to her mouth—oh, Rhys just knew how much he needed to get away from her.
Because she was there—right in front of him, with her lips parted and her mouth ready and her perfume overwhelming him…
And he had to keep a cold head.
So he closed his eyes. Took a deep breath. And he took a step back, too.
“Goodbye, Feyre,” he said with a smile.
With a broken heart.
Her tears came anew.
She asked, her voice wavering,
“See you at graduation?”
“Yeah,” Rhys offered her a half-smile. “Yeah, of course.”
When he started university in February, Rhys realized that studying astrophysics was indeed what he’d always wanted.
He loved every second of it.
He loved the snowy mountains his university was located in and he loved the early classes where he learned more about cosmology and stellar physics. He loved the cold afternoons when he got to know more about the foundations of physics and mathematics.
And he loved the evenings, too. When he finally went home to that small dorm he shared with another guy—some broody Illyrian Rhys had come to like for his discretion—and he sat down at his desk to study.
He loved those moments the most, in fact. For one, because he loved his program—indeed. He loved his classes and his teachers and was passionate about the laws of the universe and the secrets of the solar system he was learning about. But also because every single evening, Feyre called him.
And then they’d spend hours talking—looking at each other through the screen and making sure they didn’t miss a single piece of whatever had happened in each other’s day. They fell quiet, eventually, and Rhys would go back to studying as Feyre started reading some book about astrology. Either way, they kept on the phone for that, and perhaps it should have been weird, yet Rhys adored it.
Sometimes, when he stopped working, late at night, they started speaking again—quiet whispers Rhys could only hope didn’t bother his roommate. And sometimes, when he finally climbed into bed, Feyre was already asleep—her hair scattered messily around her face and her makeup smudged around her eyes.
But she was beautiful, and a selfish part of Rhys made him stay on the line for a couple more minutes, just to observe her.
When he hung up, it was always with a huge smile on his face. And a slightly thundering heart.
“I can’t believe we have to spend the whole weekend studying,” Mor, a blonde girl Rhys had met in Windhaven, was groaning beside him, and the sound made him smile.
He’d been here for a couple of months now, and he was quite grateful for the friends he’d made there. Mor was definitely one of them—all bubbly personality, blonde hair, and long red nails of her. Azriel, his roommate, also. He was broody, indeed, but mostly on the surface. And Rhys had come to appreciate his gentleness and kindness even more.
“We don’t have to spend the whole weekend studying,” Cassian, the last member of their small circle of friends, countered with a wave of his hand. “We—“
“It’s one of the most important projects of the semester, Cass,” Mor rolled her eyes. “You might not want to study, but this is a group project. And believe me, if—“
Rhys tuned out the rest of her sentence—of their bickering—the moment he heard his phone ring. And as soon as his eyes flicked to the name on the screen, he couldn’t get rid of his smile.
He was already standing from the bench they were sitting at in their university park when Cassian mused,
“Ah,” his smile was wide and his eyes sparkling. “Girlfriend’s calling.”
Rhys rolled his eyes without sparing him a look.
“Feyre’s not my girlfriend.”
Mor snorted at that, at the same time as Cassian chuckled—almost in disbelief. It was Azriel though, who asked—his voice quiet,
“Have you told yourself that?” Rhys turned to glare at him, eyes narrowing slowly. He continued, “No, because the way you’re acting with—“
“Enough,” Rhys rolled his eyes again. And he pointedly ignored his friends’ repressed smiles and disbelieving looks. “She’s my best friend,” he said with a finality even he wanted to believe. “That’s it.”
Rhys picked up his phone on what was probably the last ring.
“Feyre darling,” he greeted with the teasing voice he reserved for her, always. “What can I do for—“
“You can’t do that.”
Feyre’s voice was nothing amused. Or happy, for that matter. It was bothered, a little breathless. Angry, even.
Rhys huffed.
“I—“
“You can’t do that, Rhys,” she repeated, and he could hear the sadness in her voice now, too.
“I only said I wasn’t sure I’d be able to make the trip back home,” he tried to counter. “I—“
“But it’s our graduation.”
He took a deep breath as he slid one foot back and forth on the ground. Beneath his shoes, the grass felt soft and thick. He focused on that instead of the way his heart was feeling in his chest. He offered, his voice quiet,
“I know.” And he did.
Of course he did. He simply wasn’t sure what it was worth anymore, when he was already knee-deep in another program.
Wasn’t sure how well he’d take to seeing Feyre again, just to say another goodbye. Not that he was ready to admit that.
So he said,
“Nothing’s decided yet, Feyre. But I do have a lot of work and wanted to tell you that I might not be able to come back.”
Her huff on the other end was both painful and resigned.
“I was looking forward to seeing you.”
Rhys didn’t think she knew how much he needed to see her, too.
And yet, he wasn’t sure he’d find the strength.
“Are you coming down to eat, Rhys?”
Rhys barely spared Azriel a glance, but he did answer,
“I have to do something first.”
And if his roommate knew what it was about, Rhys couldn’t be sure. Azriel didn’t call him out on it.
When the door to their dorm room closed, Rhys checked his phone again. His last text to Feyre had been sent almost three hours ago, and he tried not to grimace at the fact that it was still left unanswered. He tried to ignore the tint of disappointment in his chest, too.
He knew she was busy—had probably spent her whole afternoon hopping between hair appointments and nail salons to get ready for her date tonight.
Rhys had tried, too—tried very fucking hard—not to let it bother him when she’d called him, about three weeks ago, and told him she was planning everything for her graduation and the date she was bringing.
He had tried.
He had failed, dramatically.
And it was cowardly, too, because if he couldn’t be there with her like he’d promised, he couldn’t exactly be bothered by the fact that she’d enjoy her night anyway, right?
He couldn’t pinpoint why it was so fucking hard to feel happy for her—when he couldn’t be part of that.
He took a deep breath, and just because he knew it was almost time for her to leave for the graduation he wouldn’t be able to take her to, he typed,
From Rhys : Me again. I hope you’re ready and will enjoy your night.
It was only when his text was sent that Rhys grimaced, finding the words a little too…
He didn’t know, exactly.
Bitter, somehow.
So he tried again,
From Rhys : I hope I get to see a picture of that dress you’ve chosen.
And, just because he couldn’t help himself, he didn’t listen to the small voice inside his mind telling him he should stop and sent a third text,
From Rhys : I’m sure you’ll make the most beautiful graduate.
He noticed his heart was fucking thundering in his chest the second the last text had gone through, and Rhys thought it was ridiculous. He was quite sure Feyre wouldn’t see any of his texts anyway. Or she would, but she’d be a little too excited and dizzy and busy to read or really comprehend any one of them.
Or she would, and she’d just brush it aside, because it didn’t really mean anything.
Or she would, but she wouldn’t care because he was Rhys after all—and she’d always only considered him a good friend.
Or she would, and—
Rhys froze the moment he saw the three little dots dance on his screen—and he realized he was holding his breath the moment a text appeared in their place.
From Feyre : You think?
He swallowed when he noticed the dots had resumed their dancing, and slowly leaned back in his chair. She was answering—when she should have been finishing getting ready, or waiting for her date, or leaving with her date.
But, no. Instead, she was texting him.
And a part of him felt a little giddy at the knowledge.
From Feyre : That I’ll make a beautiful graduate I mean?
Oh, she had no idea how much he meant it.
And his heart was still thudding, but his smile was stretching his lips, too, and he couldn’t stop his thumbs from typing back,
From Rhys : I know. You’ll be the most beautiful graduate in the room.
Her response was immediate.
From Feyre : Even with the cap and the gown?
He huffed—a quiet, almost-chuckle leaving him because he could almost picture her. Her cheeks probably flushed in excitement, and her lower lip caught between her teeth in anxiety, and her eyes struggling with the rest of her emotions.
Rhys would have loved to be there to see it first-hand.
From Rhys : Even then.
The dots danced. A new text appeared.
From Feyre : I really wish you were here with me.
From Rhys : I wish I was there, too.
From Rhys : I’m sorry I couldn’t make it.
From Rhys : But hey, at least you get to have a date who won’t step on your feet and won’t play with your cap all night.
Not that Rhys would easily admit to the grimace he fought as he typed.
From Feyre : Are you saying you would’ve been my date?
From Feyre : You know. If you’d been able to make it.
From Feyre : If you’d kept your promise like a real best friend, I mean?
Rhys snorted. His grimace was impossible to hide, then.
Still, he typed back.
From Rhys : Of course. You know I would have.
And just because he didn’t find it in himself to resist—just because he could, and because she was far away, and because she’d probably forget it in just a few minutes—he added,
From Rhys : I would have been the best date you could ask for.
Rhys regretted sending the text the moment it went through. And he stared at his screen—for so fucking long his eyes almost began to sting, a little. He stared as the text went from Sent to Read, watched as nothing happened at first, and then watched as the three little dots began dancing again.
Watched as they stopped.
As they resumed.
As they stopped again.
And then…
Nothing.
Nothing for a few seconds, anyway, before his phone illuminated with a picture of Feyre (one Rhys had taken of her sleeping in her NASA sweatshirt, her hair so messy it looked like it was curled in some places).
It was buzzing with a call that almost startled Rhys, yet he reined it in quickly. He didn’t even have the time to speak when he picked up—her voice reaching his ears instead,
“Do you intend to make good on that promise?”
Rhys blinked.
“I—” He furrowed his brows. “What?”
“Is that a promise you’re willing to keep?” she repeated—and this time Rhys realized she was a little breathless. Tired, perhaps.
“I don’t—” he huffed, as anxious as he was clueless. “I don’t get it,” he told her, shaking his head although she couldn’t see him. His thumb rubbed against the edge of his desk, playing with the wood to give himself an excuse to do something. “Aren’t you supposed to be with your date by now?”
There was a pause on the other end of the phone—long enough that Rhys had to take the phone off his ear and look, double-checking if the call was still on.
It was.
“Fey—”
“I’m waiting for him right now.”
“Wh—”
“Open your door.”
Rhys blinked.
And when it did nothing—when it didn’t help to make sense of the words coming out of Feyre’s mouth—he blinked again.
“What?”
She laughed—a sound so soft and quiet it could have been mistaken for a huff.
“Open your door, Rhys.”
There was a knock on his door then—both echoing in his ear and on the phone—before she spoke again,
“Please.”
Rhys’s movements were robotic when he stood and reached his door—and he still felt like he wasn’t exactly seeing right when he wasn’t met with the hallway but with…
Well.
Feyre.
Feyre, and her big, bright smile and her almost shameful eyes. Feyre, with her signature NASA sweatshirt and leggings, almost swallowed by the gown hastily thrown over her shoulders and the cap on her head.
Feyre, with her small huff and her soft giggle and her almost teary eyes.
But Rhys broke out of it, too, the moment she moved and crushed him in a hug so fucking tight it should have hurt—but all it did instead was feel like coming home.
He held her just as tight.
Just because, for once in almost three months, he could.
“Hi,” she breathed against him—in between a disbelieving huff and an almost chuckle.
“What—” Rhys tried, then shook his head and tightened his hold around her, almost as if asking would make her pull away. And he couldn’t have that. “What are you doing here.”
It was supposed to be a question.
It was almost accusing, instead.
“You’re supposed to be graduating, you’re supposed to—”
“We,” she cut him off quietly, her arms still holding him tight—a hug perhaps a little too loaded for what it truly was, “are supposed to be graduating together, Rhys.”
She paused, took a deep breath as she started easing out her hold around him.
Despite his every instinct, Rhys mimicked her.
“And since you couldn’t make it to our graduation,” she offered, taking a step away from him and shrugging one shoulder, “I’m taking our graduation…” she took another step backwards, reached for something in the bag Rhys only noticed was behind her, and then stepped closer to place a cap on his head. “To you.”
Rhys huffed—the sound humorless and absolutely disbelieving.
“You didn’t have to do that,” he told her, shaking his head and repositioning the cap when it fell a little to the side. “You—”
“We’ve always said we were graduating together, Rhys,” she said, her voice a little quieter now. “And I—” again, she shrugged slowly. “I missed you.”
Just because he wasn’t sure there was a world where he resisted Feyre Archeron, Rhys reached a hand to her to pull her in for another hug—and immediately delighted in the way her body tucked against his.
“I missed you, too, Feyre Darling,” he said—though his voice lacked the usual teasing it had when he was using the nickname. “So much.”
It was only later that night that Rhys realized his whole group of friends had lied to him.
There was absolutely no way he was mad at any one of them.
Feyre had been planning everything for weeks. She’d first reached out to Mor on Instagram, and had bonded with the blonde over the preparations for the night. It was quite simple, truly, what she’d orchestrated—a couple of beers and a bottle of wine Cassian had been sent to buy; a collection of snacks Azriel had agreed to help gather; a quiet spot in the park near their campus secured and comfortable with the cooling weather of May. And, of course, the cap and gown she’d managed to snatch away from their school before taking the plane to meet him in this Illyrian town.
Rhys had always loved the way Feyre was easy and careless in that way—no fancy dress and no hours spent doing her hair or nails; but more than happy with a low-key celebration spent together in the middle of nowhere.
They spent the night drinking, and laughing, and smiling. Rhys was in awe of the way Feyre immediately fit in this group of people he’d quickly become close with—sharing winks with Mor and giggling with Cassian and smiling with Azriel. It felt like she’d always been there with them, and with how close she was sitting beside him, it was oh so easy to think she’d stay here forever with him.
Feyre leaned her head on his shoulder, muffled her too-loud laughs against his bicep and yanked the beer bottle from his hands more than once. She tucked her feet underneath her and removed her gown, but kept her cap when Rhys raised an eyebrow at her. She tucked her hands in the sleeves of her sweater and played with the hem, told his friends what her plans for the future were—all while keeping to herself the part she’d only ever told him.
I want to be an astronaut.
She knew how small her chances of becoming one were.
Still, Rhys had never doubted her—not even for a second.
She giggled loudly at Mor’s retelling of the day Rhys had entered the shared bathroom to a couple going at it in one of the showers; swooned as Azriel told her how Rhys had rescued a cat from one of the campus garbage bin; blushed a deep red when Cassian told her he’d always assumed Feyre was his girlfriend.
And she’d offered Rhys one of those smiles he adored—all teeth and mischief curving her lips—when he flicked her nose and told her she’d probably had too much to drink.
“’m good,” she told him—almost a whine, if he dared say—as she shook her head. Feyre turned to Mor then, holding out a clumsy hand for the wine Mor had been sipping all along, and despite Rhys’s most convincing glare, Mor didn’t hesitate even for one second before handing the bottle to Feyre.
“Let your girl have fun, Rhys,” Mor rolled her eyes at him as Feyre took a gulp from the bottle. “It’s your graduation.”
Feyre was nodding frantically by the time she handed the bottle back to Mor.
“It’s our graduation,” she repeated, slowly swaying left and right on her knees—to music only she could hear.
She was a little quieter after that—and Rhys knew exactly why when he noticed her heavy eyes and her slightly frowning face. He placed a steadying hand on the small of her back and immediately felt her lean against his side.
They were both a little oblivious to the conversations around them, then. Both tuned out as Cassian told them all about his childhood in Illyria and as Azriel cut him off quietly to tell them about what it had been like for him.
When Feyre moved to bury her face on his shoulder, Rhys pressed a kiss to the top of her head, and found her ear to murmur,
“Wanna go lie down for a bit?”
Feyre let out a gasp—a loud one as she straightened. Rhys didn’t have to process what was happening before she was rising to her feet and taking his hand in hers, giving him no choice but to follow after her.
They didn’t even spare the rest of their group a glance before Feyre made him run in the grass—for all but a minute, until she stopped and dropped to her knees.
“Here,” she exclaimed, lowering herself on the grass until she lay down on it.
She padded the spot next to her.
“Here, Rhys!”
Rhys chuckled.
He should have known she would do that—run away from their spot under a tree to find another spot to lie on.
Only to be able to look at the stars, of course.
His friends were still a few feet away, but far enough not to be bothered by their laughing and talking—and really, when had Rhys ever been able to resist Feyre?
So he lay down beside her, and didn’t even blink when she scooted closer to him and tucked her head on his chest. He wrapped his arms around her.
And for seconds, or minutes, or hours—for the eternity, perhaps—they both simply lay there, looking at the stars and at the infinity before them.
Rhys was reminded of all those times they’d done exactly this when they were kids.
When Feyre would sneak out of her house and drag him to her backyard to stargaze. When Rhys would invite her over to spend hours by his window and watch the sky.
When they were ten and, Look! A shooting star!
When they were twelve and, Is that a plane? I wish it were a starship.
When they were fourteen and, I can’t believe people actually went there. Set foot on the moon.
Beside him, Feyre was quiet and in awe—just like she’d always been, staring at the stars. And Rhys loved it, too—loved the sky and the stars and all their secrets. Loved the unknown and the known and all that was left to discover, too.
Yet when he turned to glance at her…
He thought he loved this sight more.
Feyre had changed a little, since the last time he’d seen her.
She looked more like a grown-up than ever.
Her lips were more curved and her freckles brighter and her eyes wider. Her cheeks were more flushed, too, but Rhys guessed this was most probably due to the alcohol she’d been drinking all night.
He murmured,
“You and the stars.”
He was quite sure he saw her cheeks flush a little deeper.
From the side, she glanced at him—then back at the sky again.
“I love the stars,” she said. “And the sky.”
“Oh, really?” Rhys teased—his voice still as quiet and his eyes still trained on her. “I don’t think I’ve ever noticed.”
She giggled at that—giggled. Like the little girl she used to be and the teenager she once was.
A testament to the alcohol, indeed, Rhys guessed. The sound went straight to his heart.
He chuckled, pressed his lips on her temple.
“I love it,” he said, “how fascinated you are with it.”
When really what he meant was, I love you.
Her cheeks blushed further. A beautiful shade of crimson, now.
Again, her eyes flickered to his (and was she still blushing?) before finding the sky again. Him again, sky again.
“You used to love it, too,” she countered—her voice a little raw with truth or drunkenness.
“Still do,” he mused—then kissed her temple again. Because, why not?
And it was true.
He’d always loved the stars, too.
A part of him almost thought he’d been more fascinated with them, when they were kids—had always been stargazing with his mother, and then had dragged Feyre along with them. Rhys had been the one to always crane his neck up toward the sky, to point the sky to Feyre and show her her first constellations, to explain to her what a shooting star was, even.
He’d always found it funny that she’d taken such a fondness for it, too. That she’d ended up loving it perhaps even more than him.
Then again, he had found something totally different to love, then.
Still did.
Her eyes—shy again, and furtive again—flickered to his once more. To the sky, once more.
She said,
“Happy graduation, Rhys.”
He smiled at her—and only then realized he hadn’t stopped looking at her for maybe a few dozen minutes. He couldn’t look away.
From where they were still lying on the grass, it was almost cold by now. A part of Rhys knew he should probably offer to go to bed.
The selfish part of his heart didn’t want to offer just yet.
And actually, with the way Feyre was looking at him (still unable to decide whether to keep looking at him or look at the sky, apparently), he guessed she couldn’t be bothered, either.
He leaned his forehead against hers.
Feyre met his eyes again.
“Happy graduation, Feyre,” he murmured back, his heart a little wild with possibilities and desires and selfishness—his head a little drunk on impossibilities and respect.
He moved to place a kiss on her forehead.
A lingering one.
“Thank you for coming here.”
Feyre huffed in his arms. And when he looked down, she was still looking at him through her eyelashes.
She was still observing him with doe eyes, still threatening to make him lose all control and will.
She breathed,
“I wouldn’t have wanted to spend my graduation any other way.”
Rhys wholeheartedly agreed.
He shifted, lying on his side to be able to look at her a little better, and watched as she did the same—the sky apparently having lost the competition for her attention.
They stayed like that for a few minutes, simply looking at each other—and Rhys debated in his mind all of the reasons that would keep him from kissing her, right then and there.
He found a whole collection.
(She’s probably drunk.) (She’s leaving tomorrow and you won’t be seeing her for a couple of years.)
(She’s drunk.) (She’s leaving tomorrow and will follow her dreams.)
(She’s definitely drunk.) (She’s leaving tomorrow and doesn’t see you that way.)
(She’s drunk out of her head.) (She’s leaving tomorrow and doesn’t want you to kiss her.)
It was nowhere enough to compete with the reason he found—the reason why he should kiss her.
(He loved her).
He was brought out of his reverie when Feyre broke the silence—of the night and of the dark, but the noise of his thoughts, too. She breathed,
“I’m scared, Rhys.”
He was a little surprised by her admission. His first instinct was to lift a hand to her face, brushing his knuckles over her cheek and ask—his voice as gentle as he could make it,
“Scared of what?”
Feyre slowly turned her head to lean against his hand, letting his palm envelop half of her face, before turning back to him again.
“Scared of going to another city all alone,” she admitted in a breath, her eyes snapping closed. “Of going to university and trying to… to become an astronaut but not succeeding—only pursuing a childish dream.” She shut her eyes a little tighter. “Of trying and actually becoming one, because—what the hell would that mean.”
She paused then, taking a few breaths through her heaving chest. Her eyes snapped open to meet his after a few seconds.
And she said, “Of not being with you.”
Rhys’s hand slightly contracted on her beautiful face.
And his thumb brushed over her cheekbone just in time for her to move, lying on her back again and tearing her gaze away from him. Rhys was about to drop his hand from her face, but she caught it and gently lowered it until it was resting right above her heart.
He could feel her thundering and unsteady heart underneath his palm, and he both loved it and hated it—how the rapid pace matched his.
Feyre continued,
“Of not being able to see you,” her voice was so quiet now, it was a little hard to hear her. “Of not being able to talk to you whenever I want to. Of—” her eyes fluttered a couple of times before she closed them. “Of losing this, too—”
And Rhys wasn’t sure what she was referring to, but he felt his heart break a little.
“Losing you.”
He was shaking his head even before his mind registered her words. And he was leaning in dangerously close, too—leaning his forehead against her temple.
“Feyre,” he breathed, his chest a little panting. He took a shaky breath—gathering both his feelings and his nerves. “There is no universe,” he said slowly, “where you lose me.”
He could only hope she knew how much he meant it—how the words rang true in his mind and how his heart wanted to scream them until she believed it, too.
She batted her eyelashes at him—eyes flooded with the haze of alcohol and all those fears she’d been admitting to.
And she whispered,
“Promise?”
She was so close.
So fucking close to him he could almost imagine leaning in—sealing his words with his lips on hers; making her believe this was a promise he would keep—always; helping her understand how serious he was. Kissing her breathless, and senseless, and boneless—until she could do nothing but kiss him back and promise him the exact same thing.
He offered her a weak smile instead. And he did lean in—though his lips met her forehead instead, and both their eyes fluttered close at the way he was, indeed, sealing his words with his lips on her skin—yet not exactly where he would have wanted to touch her.
“I promise, Feyre,” he breathed against her.
Perhaps Rhys wasn’t the only one affected by this night, and by this fuzzy feeling in his chest. Perhaps he wasn’t the only one losing his mind with the proximity and with their fingers interlaced. Perhaps he wasn’t the only one—because when he brought her back to his room, a couple of minutes or hours later, he was quite sure Feyre was blushing and giggling and swaying in more than just drunkenness.
And perhaps he wasn’t the only one uncertain of what happened next. Unsure of what the reality was and what he was imagining.
Feyre’s laugh was exhilarating as he opened his door, and her smile was maddening as she patted the spot next to her on his bed, and her sparkling eyes were fucking irresistible when she looked at him like that.
But it was the way she leaned in—the way she clumsily and fussily and fucking softly leaned in close to him; her lips almost colliding with his but finding his chin instead. And how her body was clumsy but gentle—drunk in more than he could comprehend as she nuzzled her face against his. The way they both held their breaths as she came closer and closer—the way her lips brushed against his the moment they touched. How fucking soft her lips were.
And Rhys must have gotten mad—because he was quite sure she was kissing him now, and he was quite sure she was enjoying it as much as him—because how could he not.
And he was quite sure he would die on this kiss, too—die with her lips against his, and die and fucking regret his every decision he’d ever made, because surely—surely—if he had been drinking just a tad less, he would have been able to think clearly and to realize how much care she was pouring into the kiss. Surely, he would have been able to kiss her better, to kiss her like she deserved, to kiss her properly and delight in the feeling of her lips and of her body curling against his.
But he had been drinking, and he was fucking dizzy or tipsy or perhaps even drunk. Maybe not only on alcohol, but drunk all the same.
And it was his only reminder that she was, too.
His only realization that his head was not clear enough to understand everything that was happening.
That she was probably worse than him, that it was probably the alcohol speaking—kissing—and that it was probably not what she wanted.
Or that it was what she wanted (to kiss him and to breathe into him and to fucking love him, at least as much as he did her), but probably not like that.
Not in a gloomy room where his roommate could barge in any second, and not in this too-small bed, and certainly not drunk out of their heads—drunk so much they both might forget it, they both might be imagining it.
So, of course, he broke the kiss.
Panting and struggling and chest heaving.
But he broke the kiss because she deserved better. They deserved better.
And he hoped she knew it too.
He rasped,
“You’re drunk.”
When really, he meant we both are.
Feyre’s eyes were wide with alarm. Her face flushed with shame. Her throat thick with regret.
She hid it quickly—a huff a little too loaded to be amused and a soft sound echoing around them as she let her head plop down on the pillow.
She repeated—like a lifeless puppet or an obedient little girl,
“I’m drunk.”
Rhys smiled at her—so fucking softly it was a wonder she didn’t read his feelings on that smile alone. He brushed a kiss on her forehead.
“You should sleep.”
He hoped she knew how much he’d be waiting for the next morning. How eager he was to kiss her in the daylight. How willing he was to talk about all of this with her—how happy he’d be to finally tell her everything.
He kissed her brow, this time.
“Sleep tight, Feyre darling.”
Feyre was already turning around and away from him, eyes shut tight.
A little too tight?
Rhys guessed she might sleep better like that.
Come morning, they never discussed the kiss.
They never did, because when Rhys woke up, it was to a cold bed and an empty room. It was to a note resting on top of his phone, too.
Hastily written and carefully waiting for him.
Had to leave for my early flight!
Thanks for the nice graduation
:)
Your best friend.
The first year they spent apart—for real—was one of the most difficult years of his life.
For one, because his studies were quite difficult. That early program had been nothing compared to the real thing that started in September, and Rhys found himself drowning in work and textbooks, and readings.
But also because he knew Feyre was just as well—which meant their daily calls turned into weekly ones. Their quiet conversations turned shorter—either one of them falling asleep in the middle of a sentence. Their never-ending texting turned into gifs or emojis instead of real words—whatever could buy them some time in the craziness of their days.
So they called less and less, and they texted less and less, and they barely saw each other. Once at Thanksgiving, when Rhys made the trip to her campus—whatever seven hours of flight it was, (Rhys! I missed you so much!). Once when they met at their hometown for Christmas, (I wish you could stay a little longer, Feyre). Once when she made the trip to his campus again, (Ugh, your dorm room is so much nicer. Can you believe I have to share mine with a guy?! He’s obsessed with his hair and so full of himself).
And once, too, when his mother died. When his dad called him and had choked on a sob over the phone—the very first time Rhys had heard his father cry. When he’d made the trip back home without much more than a second thought—trying to hold back his tears during the whole flight. When Feyre met him in his too-empty house with red eyes and wet cheeks—and how did she even know to come, Rhys didn’t know. But he was so fucking glad she was. When she pressed him close to her heart and cried alongside him.
When she tangled her hands in his hair and tugged at it—as if it could help him not break down. As if it could help make him stay grounded. As if it could tether him to reality.
Rhys was quite sure it did.
When she lay down beside him on his childhood bed—both of them observing the ceiling they had painted once, a long time ago, back when they were oblivious to all this pain.
When Feyre had let him tuck his head against her stomach, wrap his arms around her waist, crumble in her warmth. When she’d enveloped him in her arms. When she’d provided the comfort only she could provide.
They spent almost a week there. Skipping school and grieving in this room of their past.
Crying and sobbing and hurting. But chuckling, too, at least almost. Chuckling when Feyre started sharing memories of his mother. Chuckling when she leaned in close to Rhys’s face and reminded him of that time his mother had taken them to camp in the woods, and of that day she’d let them skip school, and of that night she’d pretended she didn’t hear them ruin his ceiling.
When it was time for both of them to go back to school, a couple of days later, Rhys didn’t realize the grateful nod his father offered Feyre. Didn’t notice the way he offered her the ghost of a smile. Didn’t hear his quiet and silent,
Thank you for coming, Feyre. Thank you for going through this with him.
Rhys certainly didn’t hear Feyre’s answering,
Thank you for calling me, Sir. I had to be there for him.
And somehow, when they parted at the airport, both in a very different direction, Rhys felt his heart slightly at peace.
It was still hurting—still grieving.
But it was strangely at peace, too, and he knew he had Feyre to thank for that.
The kiss he placed on her brow was soft and grateful,
“Thank you.”
The one he placed on her cheek was sad,
“I wish we didn’t have to part just yet.”
And the one he placed on the corner of her mouth—this one was simply pure madness and grief and want and desire. A mixture of everything he couldn’t process and everything he wanted to tell her. He wasn’t even sure he realized what he was doing.
“I’ll always be there for you, Feyre. Just like you’re always there for me.”
Feyre didn’t look like she was breathing. And she didn’t look like she was able to speak, either, yet she murmured,
“I know.”
And Rhys truly hoped she did.
So his first year in university was busy and fucking hard.
His second year was just as much.
After his mother’s death, they both found more time to call, more time to text, more time to enjoy this life.
Feyre adored her studies and told him every single day—she loved the classes and loved the side projects and loved the extra work she was trying to put in as well—hoping that she might find an internship in an aerospace company sometime in the future.
Rhys loved what he was studying as well. He loved his teachers and loved his assignments and loved how it all made sense, when he was studying things as fascinating as the stars. He kept growing closer with his friends, kept spending nights out with them, and kept ditching them sometimes, when it meant he could spend the night on the phone with Feyre.
They called and spoke about their friends, and they called and spoke about their teachers, and they called and spoke about their families.
They were speaking about their past, once—about who they both were as kids and how they’d both grown up into who they were now, when Feyre asked—her voice so fucking soft over the phone,
“What am I to you, Rhys?”
And his heart stopped; at least he was sure.
It stopped, because there was no way he was answering the question—no fucking way he could be truthful, and even if he was, he didn’t even know how to describe what Feyre was, to him.
He guessed she knew it, too.
She was his friend—she had been for a long time. The first real friend he’d made, the best confidante he could ask for, the person he’d done everything with.
But she was also so much more.
She was the person who’d been there for him every step of the way, who’d dried his tears for him, who’d held his hand in the worst moments of his life, who’d laughed the hardest with him, too. The person he wanted to spend all his time with, the girl he would have wanted to be his every firsts, the woman he was sure no other could compare with.
She was the one he’d come back to—always. The one who understood him, accepted him.
She was his everything.
And it was quite a lot to say, with all twenty-something years of him.
He huffed, the sound anxious and a little disturbed, too.
“I—“ he swallowed, and somehow managed to sound detached, too. “What?”
“What am I to you, Rhys?” Feyre repeated in a breath.
Was she panting?
Was she crying?
Was she whispering?
It was hard to tell.
“You know what you are to me, Feyre.”
“Tell me anyway.”
Very often did Rhys think about that kiss they’d shared.
Of course, this was one of those times.
He was reminded of her lips against his and of her body against him and of her soft moans swallowed by his mouth. He was reminded of the fuzzy feeling in his chest and of her breath against his skin and of her small whimpers of desire.
But he was reminded of her shameful face afterward, too.
Of the way she’d turned away from him, too.
And of her note the next morning.
And of her silence the week following it.
So he said—and he was a coward, perhaps, but what else could he really offer? He told her the exact word that had been haunting his mind for days—those same words she had scribbled down for him as if it wouldn’t leave him bleeding, aching, hurting.
He said,
“You’re my best friend, Feyre.”
She huffed on the other end of the phone, but it was quiet.
Perhaps it was hurt too, even though it didn’t really make sense.
And then she breathed,
“Yeah.”
And he thought it wasn’t fair that his heart was breaking.
She said,
“I thought so.”
And he tried not to let his throat close up too tightly.
She said,
“You’re my best friend, too.”
And Rhys knew he’d done the right thing.
Exactly one week after that, Feyre told him she was dating some guy.
And his heart was glad he’d told her she was his best friend, because he wasn’t sure how he’d have reacted to the knowledge, had he told her something else.
Their third year was the one they started drifting apart.
Rhys had always known it was inevitable.
And so it happened.
They stopped calling every month and stopped texting so much. They didn’t see each other—and it most probably made sense, too, because they were both so busy. So they drifted apart, and soon enough, the only updates Rhys had of her life were the pictures she posted on social media.
Her side of her dorm room—her sheets ruffled and her books scattered all over her bed, illuminated only by the soft glow of the autumn sun.
Loving this little corner I call home.
Her usual grey NASA sweatshirt bundled over the shoulder of a wide guy with blonde hair.
Find a guy who carries your stuff.
A few pictures of the sky, of course. A sky full of stars and a sky full of clouds and a sky full of rain.
The captions were always a variation of something Feyre would always tell him as a kid, when they were playing in his bedroom,
Spaceship, engage.
The sky is clear tonight, Captain.
Might be my favorite view yet.
So Rhys watched every single picture she posted, tried to smile a soft smile every time he saw a glimpse of her on her pictures (her frowning face hidden by a Starship hat and her tongue sticking out; her feet dipping in the water; the brand new tattoo she adorned proudly on her ankle—the one of two twinkling stars).
Sometimes, when he felt bold enough, Rhys commented on her posts—something boring and a little useless, too. But Feyre always answered, and a part of his heart healed a little at that.
Every single time.
Just like the certainty it was, life kept going.
Life kept going for a long time.
Rhys kept studying—graduating from his Bachelor's in Astrophysics before completing a Master’s degree in the same field, and finally beginning his PhD. He focused on his work, poured all of himself into it—and was passionate about it.
He kept going out with friends, sometimes went as far as dating and kissing and fucking, but always ended up finding a poor excuse not to commit—and probably broke more than one heart in the process.
Feyre’s Instagram posts were fewer. Rhys made a point to observe every single one of them anyway—no matter that he’d stopped commenting a long time ago.
He felt his heart burst with pride when he read she’d gotten an internship in SpaceCourt, a company that crafted spaceships; smiled when he learned that she completed a Master’s in Astrophysics, just like him; fucking chuckled out loud, in amazement, the day she posted about her recent research about space and stayed up all night, in awe, reading her work he found online.
Rhys read her thesis thoroughly, and then read it again. She’d chosen to study stars and what they were made of—and somehow, the topic stuck in his head more than he’d like to admit.
The moment he started his own PhD, Rhys wished he could have pretended it wasn’t her work that inspired his.
Yet when he typed his thesis title, he knew exactly who he was writing it for.
Conquering Space and Landing on a Star.
Specifics, Risks and Feasibility.
Rhys was called by NASA the day after he’d defended his dissertation, almost four years later.
A part of him had expected it—at least almost. His thesis advisor had warned him that his work had attracted a lot of attention in the work field, and so perhaps it shouldn’t be such a surprise. Maybe he shouldn’t have had such a thundering heart and such sweaty palms. Maybe he shouldn’t have been so fucking giddy with excitement, either.
He was invited to their headquarters to discuss his research and findings—the very city, indeed, Feyre had been studying in. And the day before he went there, as he was tossing and turning in the too-big hotel bed and as he kept reading and re-reading passages of his research, he found himself wondering.
He hadn’t seen a post from Feyre in a very long time—and hadn’t heard from her directly in even longer. And he wondered… Really, truly wondered what she was about. Where she was. What she was doing.
He was quick and precise in the flicks of his thumbs as he checked her Instagram profile. As he scanned the posts he’d looked at a thousand times.
The last post was dated almost three years ago.
And being here, in this town—about to head in that company she’d been dreaming about since they were kids…
Rhys couldn’t really name what made him open his calling app. What made him look for her name on his favorite contact list. What made him press the call button.
He really fucking hoped she hadn’t changed her number—that was the thought that struck him on the first beep.
The second beep made him think, Oh, but what if she didn’t want to talk to him.
And on the third—Rhys was quite sure he was gonna be sick.
He was quite sure of it—and he felt his heart start to gallop in his chest already, at least it was trying to, until…
“Hello?”
All of a sudden, it all stopped—his thundering heart and his sweaty palms and his tangling thoughts. It all fucking stopped to leave place for a smile—so soft. To a peace of mind he had only ever felt when he was with her.
Rhys cleared his throat,
“Feyre?”
“Rhys?”
He chuckled. Just because his name on her lips was so fucking different than what it was in anyone else’s mouth.
And he breathed,
“Hi.”
There was a pause on the other end of the phone.
One he swore meant Feyre was trying to find something to say—trying to find something to feel—at least as much as he was.
“Hi.”
His smile widened. Just because.
And then,
“How are you?”
Her question was so simple. So fucking simple.
And yet it made his whole world shift.
It only hit him right then and there that he hadn’t heard her voice in… How many years, exactly? Six, at least. Perhaps even seven.
Too fucking long either way.
So he told her,
“Good,” he was slowly nodding along with his words. His hotel room was cast in darkness and in quietness, yet he swore he had everything he needed. “I’m good.” His smile widened. “How are you?”
“Good,” she echoed—and he could tell she was smiling, too.
Rhys bit his lower lip.
He tried,
“I wanted to call you because uh—” he huffed. “I mean—”
And Rhys could have told her anything.
He could have told her about the years they’d spent apart and could have asked her about what she was up to. Could have told her he was sorry for never calling before that, and he could have asked her whether she cared, that he had stopped texting her, too.
He could have asked her, Is this weird? All while knowing it wasn’t.
He could have asked her, Do you mind, me calling you like that? All while knowing she didn’t.
Instead, he told her,
“You’ll never guess where I am right now.”
Again, she paused.
And yet Rhys could swear he heard the way her smile widened.
He was surprised when she answered,
“I think,” she hesitated on the phone—her voice as soft as she’d always been, “I have a pretty good idea.”
Rhys slowly felt both his eyebrows raise. And he was starting to feel his heart thunder again in his chest, though this was no different from what he’d always felt with her.
He said,
“Really?”
Feyre chuckled—the sound more mature than what she’d sounded all those days and nights ago. Yet so fucking sweet, too.
“Really,” she confirmed in a breath.
He heard her breathing in the device, let his eyes flutter closed at the sound, felt his heart settle down to the rhythm she was dictating his own breathing to match.
And she continued,
“I’m sorry, Rhys. I have to go.”
He tried not to be bothered. Tried not to tell her,
But we have so much to catch up on.
Tried not to add,
Are you sure?
Tried not to admit,
I’ve missed you so much.
Tried not to reveal,
I feel like I’m breathing for the first time in—
“Rhys?”
“Yeah?”
“I’ll see you tomorrow.”
And with that, she hung up—leaving him blinking and surprised, not really able to acknowledge what this meant.