Chapter Text
“Fucking bollocking shitsticks.”
There are days that are catastrophic, days that you just want to go back to bed and hide from everything. And then there are days like these. Not only has Feyre been on her feet for pushing eleven hours now, serving coffee with the kind of smile big enough to rot your teeth, there is now the added prospect of being stuck in that same coffee shop for the foreseeable future.
“I hope you don’t kiss your mother with that mouth, Feyre darling.”
Oh, and then there’s the prick she’s stuck here with.
The door, jammed shut by the kind of storm that’s rare in this city, refuses to budge, even as Feyre throws her weight against it. She stops, pressing her face to the glass, and watches her breath condense on the pane. Then she sinks to the floor, forehead still smashed against the glass.
“Kindly shut the fuck up, Rhysand.”
--
The worst thing is the boredom. Rhysand has started a game of flipping the take-away cups onto the syrup pumps. He’s actually getting pretty good at it. Feyre is still sat slumped against the glass doors, as if her willpower alone might budge them free, but she has turned to watch him land a particularly impressive toss, bouncing one cup off the caramel and onto the vanilla. I mean sure, there are worse places to be stuck. At least there’s seats. Some out of date cake. An unlimited supply of coffee from the machine they’re going to have to clean again anyway.
Finally heaving herself up, Feyre dumps her coat and bag at the door and crosses to the silver machine, twitching the the steam arm so that it hisses comfortingly. She pulls an espresso shot, sinks it, and turns to toss her empty espresso cup across the bar. Rhysand seems to hold his breath as it sails beautifully through the air, coming to rest delicately on top of the reduced-sugar hazelnut.
“Alright, Nox, you’re on.”
He grins.
--
She doesn’t realise she’s hungry until they’re toasting marshmallows on wooden stirrers over the sandwich grills. He has a smudge of sugar on his nose, and she reaches over without thinking about it and wipes it away, sticking the finger in her mouth to lick off the marshmallow before she considers the implications of her actions. He smirks at her, and she feels the blush heat her whole face and the skin of her neck. Or perhaps it’s the grills.
--
"If I were a coffee, what would I be?"
The question is unexpected, and Feyre blinks at him before smirking. "You'd obviously be a long black. Tall and strong and smooth." She bats her eyelids at him exaggeratedly. When he replies, it's much more measured.
"You'd be a cortado. Sweeter because it's a corto shot instead of an espresso. Pretty and short but still strong enough to knock your socks off. Only a little bit bitter." He grins suddenly, and the unexpectedness makes her breath catch as she finds herself in its beaming light.
--
The cakes are good, but they’re better blended into pseudo-milkshakes. Hers is salted caramel cake and shortbread and milk and it’s the best thing she’s ever had. His is darker, with brownies and espresso, and he’s attacking it vigorously with a long-handled latte spoon. She can feel her fingers twitching with the caffeine and sugar, and he doesn’t seem much better. They swap cake smoothies, and she notices the smudge where her lips have been the second he puts it on his mouth, and she’s practically blushing at the intimacy of sharing drinks. He laughs, low and smooth, and returns her cup to her.
--
They draw a line after she smashes his cup-flip record of 25. Something about her aim is uncanny. She sinks into an armchair, chocolate muffin in hand, and he sits in the one immediately to her right. She is normally quiet, but something about their situation releases whatever has been holding her back. Above them, the lamps flicker with the lightning, threatening to give way.
“Where was it you were in such a hurry to get to? This boyfriend?”
So far their relationship has been limited to passing mentions, flying comments over the busy shop. He’s a flirt, but she’s never risen to it like this.
“I wasn’t in a hurry to get to him.”
She isn’t usually this honest, either.
“It’s Tamlin, right?”
She blinks at him, her legs shifting where they’re tucked up under her body. She might have mentioned that once, in the midst of a busy service. He seems to realise his mistake, and adds, “I know him. We’re on the same government course.”
She’d never made the connection between this Rhysand and the Rhys who irritates Tamlin in his seminars, but now that she knows, the resemblance is immediate. Her boyfriend hates him, and the afternoon following the Wednesday morning class is always unpleasant. From Tam’s grumblings, she’s ascertained that they’re in some kind of ideological standoff.
“It is. What do you think of him?” Feyre probes.
It’s not a question she would ask in the bright lights of the morning shift. But the daylight is gone, and the way his gaze lingers on her makes her feel bold. Cheeks pink, she trails a finger through the velvety foam of the cappuccino he made for her. Dry, with an extra shot. He knows how she likes it. She can feel his eyes on her, but makes no attempt to meet them, focussing entirely on the way her finger distorts the chocolate dusting on the top of her coffee. Tamlin is going to be furious that she’s late, but her phone is dead and even if it wasn’t she might have turned it off to avoid this.
“Well, he’s certainly opinionated,” she can hear the way his eyebrow arches as he says it. He pauses, and her eyes flick up to see if he’s still watching her. He is. The sugar high must have worn off by now, but she can feel the way her fingers twitch restlessly. She stopped trying the doors hours ago, content to curl up in her armchair, picking apart the cake she stole from the display case. “Feyre– “
Above them, the lights flicker sharply and die with the storm. Feyre starts, dropping her cake and reaching for her companion before she fully realises what she’s done. He reaches for her too, in the dark, and a gentle hand clasps around her upper arm. Hers comes to rest on his forearm. It’s firmer than she might have expected, corded with muscles which are tense now. The generic coffee shop music that had been playing lowly in the background has gone, and the utter silence tells them that the coffee machine and fridges have also turned themselves off.
Feyre can feel her fingers seem to shiver where they rest on his arm. She’s never liked the dark. Not like this, in a cold claustrophobic shop, with barely any windows. The place is almost pitch black, but something reflects off of Rhysand’s eyes when she meets them in the dark. His other hand comes to rest on her still moving one.
“It’s alright, Feyre, the storm must have tripped something.”
She nods in response before realising he probably can’t see her. She knows he’s right. She’s actually probably better at electronics than he is, but something about the sudden pitch darkness seems to have short-circuited something in her brain. His hand on her arm tugs, pulling her upright. “Let’s go and have a look, okay?”
She seems to shiver back into herself and nods, sliding out from where his hand still holds her gently. “There’s a torch somewhere, right?”
The torch is found. The fuse is reset, and the lights flicker back on. Rhysand crosses immediately to his precious coffee machine, babbling words of comfort as he puts his arms around it until Feyre can’t help but laugh. She sees the smile he allows himself and knows he’s only done it to break the tension she still feels, but she’s grateful anyway.
--
They lie on the floor at four in the morning. Rhys has a pile of marshmallows beside him which he is systematically throwing up and catching in his mouth as they talk. Occasionally, he’ll toss one to her too, though at this point Feyre isn’t sure how much more sugar her body can handle.
“I’m just saying, of course he favours capitalism. Why wouldn’t he? He comes from a place of privilege. His father owns so much. Of course he feels entitled to all of that. He’s never worked for anything in his life.”
Rhys blinks at her outburst. “And here I was, thinking you might have a bit more sympathy for the lad.”
She knows he’s playing devil’s advocate, that he agrees with her, but she shakes a head, taking a marshmallow from where it’s fallen on his chest. “He hasn’t ever had a job that wasn’t handed to him on a silver platter. He was bought into university. He doesn’t know anything but that life, but that doesn’t excuse him, and it certainly doesn’t excuse wanting to destroy something which has helped a lot of people. It doesn’t excuse him or his father letting people go hungry if they can’t make loan repayments. Just because he’s willing to sit idly by doesn’t mean I am. He’s going to run for office and he’s going to hurt a lot more people. I don’t want to be an enabler and I don’t want to be a trophy wife.”
He turns his face towards hers, neither of them seeming to realise that their noses almost touch when he does so. “What do you want, Feyre?”
“I want to help people. I want to stop people like him.”
He considers her for a moment. “That’s what I want, too.”
--
They write an election manifesto on the back of napkins, giggling together as their plans become more and more outlandishly idealistic.
“A right to a free education.”
“A 30 hour work week.”
“A 24 hour work week.”
“Free pizza for all every weekend.”
“A national siesta.”
“Mandatory 2pm dance parties.”
“Mandatory 2am dance parties, too.”
“All political manifestos must be written at 4.36am”
“Stupid boyfriends aren’t allowed.”
She blinks at him at that one. His face has taken on an earnestness she hadn’t anticipated.
“I mean it, Feyre. You’re a million times more than he deserves.” She shifts uncomfortably under his gaze.
“It’s easy, isn’t it? We’ve been together since high school.”
His eyes are harder now. “Don’t you think you might deserve better than a high school boyfriend? Don’t you think you deserve better than easy?”
“Back off, Rhys.” His tone has sparked something in her, and she feels her arms cross defensively over her chest. He knows he’s crossed a line, but the challenge between them is undeniable.
“You at least need someone who doesn’t treat you like some kind of trophy wife,” he spits the words back at her.
They seem to deflate her a little bit. Whatever spark he’s drawn out of her retreats just a fraction. She’s seen the ring. She knows Tam’s going to propose, and she’s never felt so trapped by anything in her whole life. On paper, he’s perfect – heir to a fortune 500 company, handsome in that sort of bland way, generous with his gifts. And she’s always had so little. They only even go to the same school because of her scholarships. And here she is, working 50 hours a week around her university courses just to make up what the scholarships don’t cover. And still. She’d rather that than let him pay her way, as he’s so often tried to do.
“Please, Rhysand, if you know someone, feel free to point him out.”
She realises the irony as soon as she says it, because she literally can’t think of anyone more eligible than the man sat cross legged in front of her. It isn’t even just his face, or his tall, leanly muscled body. His looks alone would be enough, but that isn’t even what’s most attractive about him. It’s the expressions on his face as he watches her earnestly. His quick tongue and sharp wit. He works harder than anyone she’s ever met. He’s kind and charming and single, and the way he watches her has always made her heart beat just a little bit faster. His smile twists now as she watches him, becomes rueful in a way that makes his dimples appear. They’re a quirk she’s always found attractive, turning his smile lopsided.
His tone is much lower now, much rougher than usual after being up all night, “I’ll be here when you’re ready, Feyre.”
She locks herself in the bathroom for half an hour, afraid of what she might do otherwise.
--
When she returns he’s folded himself onto the one sofa in the little cafe. He’s tall. It can’t be that comfortable. She thinks he’s asleep but when she moves past to the armchair to curl up to sleep too, his hand reaches out to catch hers. She kneels down next to him, and can’t help but smile as he cracks an eye, sleep already half claiming his features, “C’mere, darling.”
It’s not the sort of request she can refuse. Instead of curling into the armchair she lets herself lie on the wide sofa next to him. She might have been content to stay there, but he apparently isn’t. He tucks her in close to his side, his expression already more peaceful than she thinks she’s ever seen it. There’s limbs everywhere, and his legs are already dangling off the end of the sofa. But when his chin comes to rest on the top of her head, Feyre thinks she might be the most comfortable she’s ever been. Judging by the way his heart has slowed, steady under her cheek, she thinks he might be too.
--
Feyre is woken by the sun as it rises, finally streaming through the cracks in the shuttered windows. She glances around at the shop, wincing at the destruction they have wrought. Rhys stirs after she does, his hair adorably imperfect and eyes glazed with sleep, and Feyre stares at him, noting the exact moment he seems to register where they are.
He’s so ruffled, his five o’clock shadow from yesterday truly stubble now, that she can’t help but blurt out his name. And then she does what she’s wanted to do since they became trapped in this tiny little shop and presses her lips to his, just the lightest of pressures.
Unconsciously, his hand reaches up to the back of her head, long fingers tangling in her hair and pulling her down closer to him and the kiss is quickly heated, their mouths moving together. He tastes like marshmallows, and she’s pretty sure she does too. His other hand skims the skin of her arm, and she feels her skin prickle with the electricity of the contact.
But it’s him that pulls away, however reluctantly, violet eyes now sharper than she’s ever seen them. Her hand rests on his cheek, thumb tracing the sharp line of his cheekbone under the stubble.
He opens his mouth to say something, perhaps to tell her to leave him alone and never come near him again, and the outside door is forced open.
--
Feyre starts, jumping away from the cradle of his arms, hand flying to the hair that he’s mussed, biting her swollen lower lip. He’s still staring at her, but Feyre is focussed on the people at the door. Their manager, Amren, is in front. Though tiny, she seems to have been able to force the door open single-handedly. She’s flanked by a couple of the other baristas, there for the morning shift. Two of Rhys’ equally handsome friends, who are grinning stupidly at the pair of them now. And behind them... Tamlin.
The concern on his face is short lived, turning quickly to fury as he takes in the scene – Rhys, emerging from the sofa they’ve obviously slept on. Tam’s words are sharp, barbs directed at Rhys. “We’re going home, Feyre.”
Not are you alright? No concern at all, actually. For anything. Feyre feels, rather than sees, Rhys rise at her back.
“Tamlin. Nice to see you. Good of you to ask, we’re both fine,” Any vulnerability he might have let slip during the night is gone, replaced so quickly by the cold smoothness Rhys has perfected. Feyre feels his hand come to rest very gently on the small of her back, where she knows Tamlin can’t see. It’s reassurance, somehow. But she’s got a lot to deal with before she can do what she actually wants to.
She turns, looks up at his face. A shade of uncertainty passes over it as she looks at him now, even as her fingers brush ever so slightly against his, still hovering near her stomach. “I’m nearly ready. I just have to deal with something first.” And then she forces herself away, retrieving the bag she dumped by the doors all those hours ago. She passes her smirking colleagues, and Amren, who’s inspecting where the doors were jammed. “I’ll come back and help clean this up, Am, I promise.”
Amren waves her off, and Feyre knows that she’s already catalogued the damage and is far more concerned about her employees than anything else. At the door, Feyre lets herself glance back at Rhys, whose expression is, in a word, torn. “I’m nearly ready.”
And then she lets herself be led away by Tamlin for the last time.