Chapter Text
The silence was too much.
In all the years she’d known Rhysand, there had never been uncomfortable silence between them.
Until now. Until this excruciating drive home, where he clearly had no idea what to say to her and Feyre hardly had anything to say to him. All she wanted was to crawl into a ball of shame, meld herself to the passenger seat so she wouldn’t have to confront this harrowing energy between them.
When they got to his house, the quiet still clung to them, hanging in the air like thick cobwebs that they couldn’t seem to shake off. Rhys busied himself with picking out some spare clothes for her, wordlessly handing her sweatpants and an old shirt that didn’t fit him anymore.
That electricity crackled as Feyre accepted the clothes, their fingers brushing ever so slightly. Rhys held his hands there a moment too long.
Feyre, who had been doing everything in her power to avoid his eyes, finally looked up. He was staring her in exactly the way she feared he’d be, with the kind of unfiltered intensity that could set her on fire, no magnifying glass required.
Rhys looked very much as if he wanted to say something. She was stuck, somewhere between begging him to just say it while knowing whatever words he spilled would be unbearable to hear.
“Feyre. You’re…” He paused. The words hung in the air between them, thick and suffocating. She swallowed thickly, and he mirrored it. She wanted to scream, wishing he would just put her out of her misery, because the silence was damning enough already.
Finally, he said, “you’re my best friend. No matter what.”
It was meant to be consoling, his way of saying he didn’t care about the awkwardness that had transpired tonight. The words shouldn’t have felt wrong coming from him, but they did. He was her best friend. That’s what they’d always been to each other.
But something had been ripped open tonight. A miasma erupted between them, spilling out a truth she hadn’t been ready to confront. But she understood it, now. Understood what she had been reaching for all these years. Tamlin wasn’t her best friend, he’d never been anything close. What Rhys had done for her tonight, Tamlin wouldn’t have been able to do half of it without considerable prompting.
Not because Tamlin didn’t love her, or hadn’t been willing to do big, romantic gestures. But because he didn’t know her, not really. He didn’t know the words to her favorite Taylor Swift songs, didn’t know the quiet, imperceptible ways to make her happy.
She’d never had to tell Rhys these things, he just knew them because he’d been paying attention. Because he cared.
“You’re my best friend, too, Rhys,” she said, feeling tears sting behind her eyes. She meant it, in ways she’d never properly understood until this moment. Everything seemed to click into place.
She didn’t fully understand what she was doing. One moment, she was staring into the void of this overwhelming tension and the next she’d decided to say fuck it to everything, and launched towards him in a hug.
The clothes fell to the floor, forgotten as she clung to Rhys, letting the realization take control, letting the tears fall. She buried herself into his neck as she cried, grieving the years she’d wasted.
Surprised by her outburst, Rhys was stiff at first. Then the tears triggered his nurturing side, his hands moving to hold her steady as he rubbed comforting circles into her back, murmuring soothing nonsense into her ear.
He probably thought she was finally breaking down about Tamlin. It was so much more than that. She pulled away only after she took pity on him, her dear friend whose neck was probably aching from the emotional whiplash.
Then, inexplicably, Feyre found herself leaning in for a kiss goodnight, brain catching up with her body to awkwardly pause just before his lips. Rhys was stiff with shock, watching her with disbelief. She could have sworn he’d been about to lean in to meet her when she panicked and swerved her face around to kiss his cheek.
“Goodnight, Rhys,” she said quickly, not waiting for a response as she darted to pick up the clothes and retreat into the guest room.
She woke to the smell of burnt toast. Venturing out of his guest room, dressed in his baggy shirt and rolled up sweats, she found Rhys in the kitchen, frying eggs over the stove. There was a plate of toast on the counter, which Feyre sauntered towards. It was semi-burnt, which was perfect in her book. .
Rhys watched her curiously as she plucked a slice from the pile.
“Mornin’,” he drawled, testing the waters.
“Morning,” she responded, the words garbled behind the slice of toast, which made him chuckle. Her heart leapt at the sound.
“How are you feeling this morning, darling?”
Getting right to it. Typical Rhys. Feyre tried not to roll her eyes as she slid haphazardly into a chair, propping her legs onto the table.
Rhys momentarily abandoned the eggs to fill her a glass of orange juice, which he slid in front of her casually. Her heart swelled, marvelling at such a careless gesture of love. This , she thought. This was what she’d been looking for all these years. It was right under her nose. Had she missed her chance to ever explore something like that with him?
“Wonderful, actually. I forgot how much comfier your mattresses are. I slept like a babe.”
He smiled as he plated the eggs, carrying them over so he could claim the seat across from her. At his half-hearted scowl, she dropped her legs from the table, making room for the freshly cooked eggs. Sunny side up, just the way she liked them. Even though she knew Rhys preferred his overeasy.
“I suppose if you’re in the market for a roommate, you could always move in with me.”
Feyre sputtered on her mouthful of eggs of toast. Rhys raised his brows, and Feyre tried to cover the loss of composure with a long sip of orange juice.
He’d offered it so casually, like it was no big deal. Feyre supposed between two adult best friends, it shouldn’t be, even if she knew Rhys didn’t financially rely on sharing rent with a roommate.
“I-I can’t,” she answered once she’d had a moment to recover, setting her glass down just a bit too roughly.
Those keen violet eyes assessed the motion carefully, the way he always noticed everything. “Why not?” he asked, trying to sound nonchalant, but she could hear the edge to his voice.
Feyre struggled to come up with a reason that skirted the elephant in the room, that lingering awkward tension remnant from the night before. “I can’t afford the rent here, for one.”
Rhys scoffed. “I currently pay the whole of the rent myself, Feyre. Pay whatever you can afford, you’d still be saving me money.”
“I couldn’t do that to you, Rhys,” she said, shaking her head.
He was frowning. “Do what to me?”
She waved her arms vaguely around the space. “Interrupt your life like that. I mean, you’re a young… bachelor. Why would you want me hanging around?”
“Bachelor?” he repeated in disbelief. “Look, it was just an offer because I know you’ll be looking for someone now that Tamlin’s left. If you don’t want to move in with me, that’s fine, Feyre.”
“I never said that.” She sat up straighter, face twisting to mirror his frown.
“Then what are you saying?”
It sounded like a challenge. She supposed it was, in a way, of how willing she was to confront this truth she’d uncovered.
“I’m saying that I can’t, Rhys.”
“Because you don’t want to get in the way of my bachelor activities?” His words were careful, measured. A hunter laying his trap.
Damn him. Damn him for being so perceptive, and for knowing exactly how to choose his words like land mines. When it came to a battle of words with him, she always lost.
She threw her hands up in defeat, knowing when she was cornered. Knowing that he’d already read her hand before it’d even been dealt. “I don’t want to see them, Rhys. I won’t be able to stand it.”
Feyre laid her hand on the table, moving to stand up, but Rhys caught her wrist, holding her there. There was something like fury on his face.
“ You don’t want to see it?” he repeated. “Imagine what it’s been like for me, watching you pretend to be happy with that tool for the last two years.”
Rhys practically spit the words. Huh , Feyre thought, so it had been two years . At least one of them had been paying attention. But Feyre had too much pride to admit that he was right, that she had been pretending. They both had been.
She met his those furious, blazing eyes with her own icy flames.
“What were you looking for, Feyre? What was missing?”
Her temper rose with his voice, bubbling over until she exploded. “Stop pretending like you don’t already know!”
Rhysand stood, too, his hand still firmly clasped around her wrist. “Pretending!? Christ, Feyre, look at you,” he flung his hand towards his clothes she wore. She frowned, glancing down at herself, trying to connect the dots. He ran his hand through his hair in exasperation. “When have I ever pretended to be anything other than in love with you!?”
In love—what?
Her brain short circuited. Feyre had thought Rhys figured out how she felt, that he was going to confront her for ruining their friendship with unrequited emotions. How had this turned into his confession?
“I—you’re in love with me?”
That seemed to sober his anger, the rage evaporated into something more akin to weariness.
“What were you looking for?” the words were softer, more desperate.
Feyre met those startling eyes, letting this new revelation give her courage.
“You,” she whispered. “I was always looking for you.”
That was all he needed to hear.
They crashed together like two magnets finally thrown from orbit. His mouth was hot on her own, his kisses hungry and frenzied, like he was starving.
“I have—” he gasped in those rare moments of breath— “been imagining—kissing you—for years.”
He lifted her, and Feyre seized the opportunity to wrap her legs around his waist.
Rhys broke the kiss, breathing haggard. “Fuck, Feyre. I didn’t want it to be like this. I wanted to do this prop—”
She cut him off with a scorching, open mouth kiss. Because she didn’t care how they got here, didn’t care if he’d taken her on dates before painstakingly confessing his love or screamed it in a fit of rage in the middle of his kitchen the day after a messy breakup.
Now that she was tasting him, feeling their bodies pressed tightly against each other, this seemed to have always been the inevitable outcome.
It’d taken her almost a decade to figure it out, she didn’t want to waste a moment longer making sure they went through the proper routes. Screw romance. Screw tradition. But most importantly, screw Rhys . Because that’s what she fully intended to do.
“Say it again,” she gasped, tracing her lips feverishly against his neck, returning to the spot they’d accidentally acquainted yesterday, wanting to mark herself there .
“What?”
It was a half groan, his hands tightening where they held her hips. Evidententally, his neck was a bit sensitive.
“Say that you love me.” The words were a warm breath whispered against his skin, half lost to the way she was swiping her tongue and teeth at the base of his neck.
Distantly, in the real world, Rhys was carrying them out of the kitchen. Feyre only realized it when her back suddenly hit something soft, the world tilted so that Rhys was hovering over her, caging her in with his arms.
“I love you,” he murmured, using his lips as emphasis, brushing a molten trail from her collarbone to her earlobe, where she could hear each shallow breath he took. “I’ve been in love with you since I was 17 years old. That’s how long you’ve been tormenting me, Feyre.”
“That’s a lot of time to make up for,” she agreed, tugging him back so she could reclaim his mouth with her own, but he pulled away.
Feyre huffed, about to protest the lack of contact, but Rhys was staring at her, expression so vulnerable and wanting. She’d never seen him like this, completely pried open to her. All carefully constructed facades were gone, this was just Rhys, her Rhys that she only caught glimpses of. Now she could see him for all he was, those bottomless purple pools fixated on her, waiting.
Her brain stuttered. Was she missing something? “What?”
Rhys seemed to hesitate, as if unsure how to broach the subject. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d seen him so nervous. “D-do you?”
“Do I what?”
Those silver flecks in his eyes went dull. “Love me?”
Feyre blinked, lust-addled brain still trying to catch up, taking too long to cast her mind back over their conversation. Had she truly had not said it back yet? Could he really not see it? Too late, she’d taken too long to answer. Rhys wilted under her dubious silence.
He started retreating off the bed. Feyre felt his absence like she was trying to flex a muscle that wasn’t there, a phantom pain on her heart.
“It’s okay,” he was saying, picking his way to his feet, “you’d don’t have to—”
“Of course I love you,” she blurted, mostly in exasperation. It wasn’t the most romantic confession, but she was mostly baffled it hadn’t been obvious to him. “I-I think you’re the only one I’ve ever loved.”
The slow grin that spread across his face was exhilarating. And then he laughed. A sound so full of mirth it turned her blood to helium, made her feel so light she was certain she’d float away. She met his eyes, his gaze the string that kept her tethered, the love and elation she found there pulling her back to the ground, back to him.
She was quickly realizing that everything led back to him.
“That’s all I ever wanted to hear you say,” he whispered, a bit awestruck.
“I love you,” she repeated, more meaningfully this time. The way Rhys seemed to melt from the words, his eyes going dopey and soft, spurred her on. She was a ball of yarn, unspooling at his feet. “I don’t know when it happened or why it took me so long to realize it, but I love you. I love that you know all the words to my favorite Taylor Swift songs, and that you always know what I need to hear. I love the sound of your laugh and how I’m always smiling when I’m around you. I love that when I’m with you, I’m never worried about how much space I take up. I’m just happy , plain and simple, when I’m with you.”
That string that tied them together, with every word it was like Feyre had pulled on it, tugging Rhys closer and closer. The curve of his lips grew with every step, until he stopped in between her legs, staring down at her with a smile as dazzling as the stars.
She tugged him down, wanting to taste it, wanting to feel his weight like a blanket. He caught himself on his elbows, once more cocooning her into his body. Heat radiated between them, a soothing warmth that reminded her of a cup of tea on a rainy day.
Their mouths found each other with an ease of familiarity as if they’d been doing this their whole lives. She wondered if it always felt this natural, kissing your best friend. If they had found each other later on, would this gravity have felt less consuming? Less inescapable?
Feyre gasped as his hands ducked under her shirt, fingers skimming the bare skin under her breast. She arched into him as his thumb brushed her nipple, smothering a moan in the back of his throat.
“Fuck, Feyre,” he ground out, breaking from their kiss to meld his mouth to her neck. His teasing scrape of teeth sent a sharp prickle of nerves down her spine, the fire of him spreading through her veins. “You’ve no idea how long these have been torturing me.”
He was fondling her breasts with a vigour that elicited an embarrassing keening noise from Feyre, entirely against her volition. Her face burned at the sound, but she could feel Rhys smiling against her neck, his frenzy encouraged by her gasping breaths.
In one smooth motion, Rhys pulled back, hands abandoning their spot at her chest to pull Feyre’s shirt over her head. His eyes darkened as they surveyed her exposed flesh, hitching on her peaked nipples.
He ducked his head down to take one of them into his mouth, flicking his tongue eagerly against the bud. Rhys released it with a pop , smirking at the way Feyre shivered against the invasion of cool air where his hot mouth had just been.
“This is exactly what I mean,” he grunted, fingers returning to tease the neglected bud. “Do you know how fucking torturous it was that you never wore a bra at my house? You think I didn’t notice?”
Sleeping over at his house was usually an impromptu decision, the result of one too many drinks. She usually had to borrow his clothes, which meant braless mornings in his shirts. Feyre hadn’t expected him to ignore it, she just didn’t know he thought of her in that way.
She didn’t have words for this revelation, this one sided wanting that she’d been oblivious to for so long. She’d always thought Rhys was ridiculously good looking, but in an unattainable sort of way. If only she’d known, Feyre thought, she might have tried something sooner.
Tried something like the way she was sneaking her hands under his shirt, wanting to feel those hard muscles she’d caught glimpses of so many times before. Wanted to run her mouth along every lean dip of his body.
“No,” he growled, grabbing her wrists to pin them above her head. “You’ve been prancing around in my clothes, tormenting me for years , Feyre. The least you could do is let me finally taste you.”
Feyre tried not to whimper as he tugged at the sweatpants she wore, taking her underwear with it until she was stripped bare before him, completely exposed yet not feeling the least bit vulnerable. Not when Rhys was looking at her as if she was the answer to every damn question in the universe.
“You’re beautiful,” he breathed, with so much reverence in his voice Feyre almost choked up at it. Tamlin had never looked at her like this— no one had ever looked at her like this.
He kept looking at her like that, violet eyes boring into hers as he lowered himself to her abdomen, kissing a tender line down her thighs. Gentle, warm hands came to her knees, parting them open as Rhys settled himself between her legs.
“Beautiful,” he repeated, the word mostly an exhale as he stared at her. He held the moment, and there was nothing in the world but those starkissed pools of amethyst, stealing her breath as the anticipation wound her further than any teasing touch could.
Then he descended on her, mouth hot and wet at the apex of her thighs as he tasted her thoroughly. He lapped at her like she was his oasis in the desert, tongue and fingers moving with an expertise that had Feyre gasping and bucking against him.
Rhys gave a satisfied grunt at her movements, eyes glittering with pleasure as he watched the way she came undone at his touch.
“Do you like that, Feyre?” he purred, flicking his tongue against her clit with a ferocity that had her keening. “Do you like the way I fuck you with my tongue?”
Fuck , she had no idea Rhys was like this in the bedroom. Every word that spilled from his mouth had her spiraling further and further into a chasm of pleasure she’d never known.
Except Rhys stopped, raising his head from her legs as he watched her carefully. She felt the lack of contact like a cool splash of water jolting her wake, and she bucked towards him desperately to get it back. But he was staring at her expectantly, and Feyre realized he was waiting for an answer.
“Fuck— Yes , Rhys,” she breathed, fighting against the rasp in her voice. “I love it.”
“That’s right,” he murmured approvingly, returning his mouth to that delicate bundle of nerves. “That’s fucking right, you love it.”
Feyre moaned as that pleasure built, fingers sliding into Rhys’s silky hair, locking them into a vice-like grip that had him groaning as Feyre tugged him closer, grinding into his face.
“You taste incredible, Feyre ,” he was gasping into her. “Exactly how I imagined.”
Then he sucked her clit into his mouth and Feyre was gone, consciousness sent scattering from the mind-numbing pleasure that crested within. Rhys held her still as she spasmed beneath him, tongue working her through her release until she slumped into the bed, gasping to regain her breath.
“Incredible,” he whispered as he pulled away, moving up her body to claim her lips in a kiss so loving she truly thought it would destroy her. Sex had never felt like this before, like something so raw and fulfilling.
Feyre reached to tug and the waistband of his sweatpants, wanting to reciprocate the amazing oral he’d just given her, but once again Rhys stopped her, muffling her protests with another searing kiss.
“Later,” he said as he pulled away, moving to secure Feyre in a cuddle against his chest. “I want to take my time with this.”
“We’ve had ten years of taking our time,” Feyre argued, feeling his erection press against her back. She suppressed the urge to writhe against it.
“Ten years for me to think about all the ways I want to have you. And I fully intend to do them all, Feyre,” there was a sensual promise in his voice that sent her pulse stuttering, “but part of that longing was just being able to hold you. Not like a best friend, but… like this.”
He tucked his face into the crook of her neck, inhaling deeply. Feyre let him nuzzle against her, shutting her eyes to relish in the lazy kisses he trailed across her skin.
“You’ll always be my best friend, Rhys,” she whispered. “My best friend, and so much more.”
Rhys hummed in quiet approval, hands moving to caress her stomach, tracing lulling circles there.
“It’s been nice being your friend. But I think I like the sound of being so much more.”
“How does... boyfriend sound?” she asked, growing nervous in the question despite all that had just transpired.
She could feel Rhys grin into her neck. “I think I could work with that.”
As they laid there, Rhysand’s warm body spooning her as he trailed sweet touches along her bare skin, Feyre felt a quiet, glowing warmth in her chest. She smiled knowingly into the content, comfortable silence. This is what had been missing. And it felt so, so good to find it.