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The first time it happened, Feyre didn’t understand what had woken her.
The room was dark, the curtains drawn against the moon, the soft hum of Velaris settling into the quiet hours before dawn. Rhys’s arm was slung over her waist, warm and familiar, his breathing slow and steady at her back.
Safe.
Always safe.
Then his grip tightened.
Not gently. Not unconsciously shifting in sleep.
Tight enough to hurt.
Feyre’s eyes snapped open.
“Rhys—”
His body jerked violently, muscles locking, wings twitching as if bracing for impact. His arm clamped down harder around her ribs, and something in his chest broke loose—a strangled sound, half snarl, half gasp.
His power surged.
Not controlled. Not careful.
Raw.
Feyre twisted, trying to turn toward him. “Rhys, it’s me—”
He shoved her away.
Hard.
She hit the edge of the mattress and nearly fell, catching herself on the bedside table. The room pulsed with shadow, thick and suffocating, as his magic lashed outward in blind panic.
Rhys shot upright in bed, breathing like he’d been drowning.
For a moment, his gaze was wild.
Unseeing.
Then it landed on her.
The shadows recoiled instantly.
“H—Feyre?” His voice was hoarse, horrified.
She steadied herself, heart hammering, ribs aching where his grip had been. “I’m here.”
His eyes dropped to her side, to the way she held herself slightly curled, protective. Realization crashed across his face.
“I hurt you.”
The words came out like a confession.
“No,” she said automatically. “It was just—”
“You’re shaking.”
She hadn’t realized she was.
Rhys dragged a hand through his hair, breathing uneven. “I thought I was back there,” he muttered. “Under the mountain. Hands on me. I couldn’t— I needed to get free—”
His voice broke.
Feyre’s fear softened instantly, replaced by something deeper, heavier.
She reached for him.
He flinched.
Not dramatically. Not violently.
Just enough.
Her hand froze midair.
Silence settled between them.
Rhys stared at the floor, shoulders tight, wings pulled in close like he was trying to make himself smaller.
“I’m sorry,” he said quietly. “I didn’t mean—”
“I know.”
He swallowed. “I could have done worse.”
“But you didn’t.”
“Not this time.”
The words hung in the air.
Cold.
Feyre climbed off the bed slowly, every movement deliberate, careful not to startle him.
“I’m going to get some water,” she said softly.
He nodded, but didn’t look up.
She left the room with her heart lodged somewhere in her throat.
—
They didn’t talk about it in the morning.
Or the next day.
Or the one after that.
Life resumed its rhythm—meetings, patrols, training, dinners with friends—but something subtle had shifted between them.
At night, Feyre noticed it most.
Rhys still held her. Still kissed her goodnight. Still brushed his magic along the bond in soft, reassuring touches.
But when sleep came…
He kept his distance.
He stayed on his side of the bed, body rigid, breathing shallow. And if she shifted too close, he would wake instantly, tension snapping through him before he realized where he was.
The third night, Feyre woke to find him sitting on the balcony, wrapped in shadows, staring out over the Sidra.
“You’re not sleeping,” she said.
He didn’t turn. “Didn’t want to risk it.”
Her chest tightened.
“Rhys—”
“I hurt you,” he said simply.
“You were having a nightmare.”
“And that makes it acceptable?”
“No. It makes it understandable.”
He shook his head, jaw tight. “I’ve spent centuries controlling my power. Controlling myself. And in one moment I—”
“You didn’t lose control,” she interrupted. “You were afraid.”
“I could have broken your ribs.”
“But you didn’t.”
“I shoved you,” he pressed. “Hard.”
She stepped closer, leaning against the balcony railing beside him. “I’m not fragile.”
His laugh was bitter. “You are to me.”
The wind stirred between them.
Feyre reached for the bond, brushing it gently, offering warmth, reassurance.
He didn’t pull away.
But he didn’t lean in, either.
“I don’t trust myself,” he admitted.
The words were quiet. Raw.
Feyre’s heart cracked.
“Rhys—”
“I will not be the thing that hurts you in your sleep,” he said, voice rough. “Not after everything else you’ve survived.”
“And I won’t let fear take this from us,” she replied.
His gaze finally shifted to hers.
There was so much in it. Guilt. Love. Terror.
“Come back to bed,” she said softly.
He hesitated.
Then shook his head.
“Not tonight.”
—
Nights turned into weeks.
They still touched—hands brushing in passing, quiet embraces, lingering kisses—but the bed became something fragile. Careful.
Rhys slept lightly, often waking before dawn to leave the room entirely.
Feyre missed him.
Not just his warmth.
The ease of him. The unconscious closeness. The way his breathing had once anchored her.
Now every movement felt measured. Thoughtful.
Afraid.
One night, she woke from a dream of her own—sharp and disorienting—and reached for him instinctively.
Her hand found empty sheets.
She sat up, heart pounding.
The balcony doors were open.
Cold air drifted inside.
Feyre wrapped herself in a blanket and stepped outside.
Rhys sat on the stone floor this time, back against the wall, wings folded tight.
“You’re going to freeze,” she said.
“I’ll live.”
She sank down beside him.
For a while, they just listened to the river.
Then she said, “I had a nightmare.”
He stiffened. “Are you all right?”
“I am now.”
He nodded slowly.
She shifted closer, until their shoulders brushed.
He didn’t move away.
“I don’t want this distance between us,” she admitted. “But I won’t force you.”
“I’m trying,” he said. “I just… need to be certain.”
“Of what?”
“That I won’t wake up and hurt you again.”
She studied him.
Then reached out and took his hand.
He went very still.
“I trust you,” she said.
His fingers curled slowly around hers.
“I’m still afraid,” he admitted.
“So am I.”
The honesty hung between them.
Real. Unvarnished.
And somehow… lighter for it.
—
The first night he came back to bed, he didn’t touch her.
He lay stiffly on his side, careful not to drift too close, shadows coiled tight as if ready to restrain him.
Feyre didn’t move.
Didn’t reach.
Just let her breathing slow, steady.
A silent invitation.
Minutes stretched.
Then—
He shifted.
Just slightly.
Their hands brushed.
Neither pulled away.
The bond flickered, warm.
The next night, his knee rested against hers.
The night after that, his arm draped loosely across her waist—tentative, like he was testing the space.
Every time, she stayed still. Calm. Letting him lead.
Trust rebuilding, thread by thread.
Until one night, weeks later, Feyre woke to find herself tucked against his chest, his arm secure around her, his breathing deep and even.
No tension.
No shadows lashing.
Just… peace.
She stayed there, afraid to move.
Eventually, Rhys stirred.
His eyes opened slowly, adjusting to the dark.
He froze when he realized how close they were.
Feyre watched the flicker of panic rise—
Then fade.
Because she was still.
Safe.
Unhurt.
“I didn’t—” he began.
“You didn’t,” she said softly.
His grip tightened, just a little.
Careful.
Reverent.
Relief flooded the bond so strongly it nearly made her dizzy.
“I missed this,” he admitted.
“Me too.”
He pressed his forehead to hers, eyes closing.
“I will always be afraid of hurting you,” he whispered.
“And I will always choose to stay,” she replied.
Silence settled around them.
Not fragile this time.
Steady.
Rhys exhaled, long and slow, and let himself sink fully into the mattress, into her warmth, into the certainty of her presence.
And when sleep finally claimed them again, they held each other—not tightly, not desperately, but with the quiet confidence of two people who had faced fear together and found their way back.
Back to the same bed.
Back to the same love.
Back to each other.