Mor is shepherding Rhys into the car moments after Feyre's departure, forcing him to change into a soft change of clothes and attacking the blood all over him with wet wipes, but he's not really conscious of anything until they start driving.

He's still reeling from it all.

They found him, saved him—which, as much as he has faith in Az and the rest of the Night Court, he never really believed he stood a chance at getting out, at surviving.

(a darker part of him admits he didn't mind, much, as long as everyone else was okay)

And he was dying, but Feyre's blood saved him, because Feyre was there, an angel of rage and love—and pregnant, with their child.

A baby—half him, half Feyre.

(They already have his heart.)

But she's been doing this alone; there's so much he's already left her alone for.

She has every right to be upset, he knew the moment he'd decided not to tell her yet she would be pissed when she found out, but—

(it was the right thing to do. What she needed, then.)

"How far along is she," he rasps.

Mor's brows lift in confusion. "How far in what?"

"She didn't—" he closes his eyes, because of course she's been dealing with this all on her own. Anything to keep the people around her from worrying, while she's got the weight of the world on her shoulders. "Feyre's pregnant."

"Oh my god." Mor gapes, stutters like he hasn't seen her do in ages. "That—I knew she'd been weird lately. She must've told Cassian this morning; he's been more overprotective than I've ever seen him all day. God."

They're silent most of the drive home; occasionally, Mor mentions an update that comes to mind, doing her best to fill him in on everything that's been going on while he was captive.

But she's speaking carefully—too carefully.

(she's hiding something.)

Every story she relays dances around something invisible, hesitates before mentioning a name or a comment.

When they're five minutes out, she sighs, expression full of trepidation. "I know this day has been a lot. And you're probably already overwhelmed a million times over. But—there's something else you need to know, before we get home."

What more could there possibly be? he wants to demand. Instead, he asks, "What went wrong?"

"Not wrong!" Mor immediately assures him. "This is actually—one of the best things to ever happen to us. Truly. I'm just a little worried it might be too much for one day. Which is why I'm telling you while you're sitting, so if you faint you don't get any more injuries.

"When we raided the warehouse, we managed to get out a bunch of girls, Lucien's soulmate included. And she…Rhys, I don't know how it's possible. But—Mia's alive. Lucien's soulmate is Artemisia."

He chokes at the words feels his entire body jolt. "No. That's not possible."

It's a mistake, or a dream—one he's had a million times over. Years of waking up from scenes of her return, only to have to remind himself she was gone for good. he'd love to believe his little sister is alive more than anyone.

(but hoping hurts too much.)

He doesn't respond further—just keeps shaking his head until they're pulling into the garage.

And then she's there—older, skin a few shades too light (like she hasn't seen the sun in years), but so clearly her, smiling and already crying at the sight of him.

Rhys can't speak—just reaches for her, breathes heavily at the familiar shape of Mia in his arms.

"Hi, bubba. I'm so glad you're okay."

He barks out a laugh, squeezes her a little tighter. "Me? I can't believe you're here, jesus."

Her smile is bittersweet—the ghosts in her eyes are familiar in a way that breaks his heart. "Yeah. I—sorry. I wanted to come with them to find you today, but—I couldn't be back there." She shudders at the thought. "I just—I'm not ready for that yet. Maybe ever."

It's then that Rhys really processes what her being rescued means.

(they'd found her in the lair of a sex trafficking ring—where she'd been held captive for years.)

(he doesn't know whether to break something or throw up.)

All the years of suffering Amarantha's abuse—and the same had been done to his baby sister, for so much longer.

(he'd sworn to protect her—but he knows the darkness her soul has seen, now.)

"Hey, don't—don't go there," she demands, bringing his attention back to her face. "It's—not okay, but it's over. I'm free, and you're home, and we're together, and—we can get through anything, that way."

He nods, tries to breathe and stop thinking of the horrors she's been through since he last saw her.

(she's here. Alive.)

Mia pulls away eventually, but he's still staring at her—can't really believe the sight before his eyes.

"Where's Feyre and Cass?" she asks, and Rhys winces.

"She's—mad at me, for not telling her I knew we were soulmates. Needs some time alone—Cass is taking her somewhere to cool off, now that she knows I'm safe. I think it was just…a lot, emotionally."

And he knows Feyre's never really had a family before—never had anyone, before Tamlin. He nearly broke her, so it makes sense that for Rhys to keep something so big to himself…well, he can understand why she's so hurt.

(he knows her well enough to know this is her way of processing.)

"Speaking of soulmates—now that I know yours is Lucien, I have some threats to make."

"Go easy on him," Mia orders, tugging at his arm gently as they head through the garage door. "I respect your need to play the protective big brother, but also…he's given a lot, over the years, to try to protect me. To love me."

"Yeah, yeah. Well, he's a good guy and my soulmate's best friend, so—I don't have much of a choice, I suppose."

They make their way further inside, and his heart pangs at the sight of the art that covers every inch of his chambers. Feyre.

(as mad at him as she is, she missed him too. Loves him too. They can make it through the rest.)

At this point the day's events and mental trauma catch up with Rhys.

(he promptly passes out.)

/

/

A week, she's been holed up in the safe house Cassian assured her Rhys wouldn't think to check.

By now, she's sure he's gotten it out of Cassian, but she's made it perfectly clear to her soulmate via messages on her skin that she doesn't want to see him until she's ready.

(You're my light in the night. I'm sorry, he writes every day without fail.)

Nothing more than that—no pleas for her to come back, no demands asking where she is, no guilting her for leaving him. He respects her choice as much as he hates it, loves her enough to leave her be if that's what she needs right now.

(even all these months after leaving Tamlin, she can't pretend being treated well doesn't still surprise her.)

She knows he's nonetheless going out of his mind with worry (her guy is a mama bear if there ever was one), so every day she does him the courtesy of writing back, "we're okay. I'll come home soon."

And really…she's not mad at him as much, anymore. More overwhelmed—so much has happened, and while Rhys is probably the best thing that's ever happened to her, the last time she was in love it consumed her, and it's hard to trust herself even though she knows this time is different.

(he's her soulmate.)

The permanence of it, when they'd danced around the edges of togetherness for so long is terrifying. And as much as she knows he has his reasons, she's terrified thinking of what it says about her that she was with her soulmate, whoknew who she was, almost every hour of the day—what does that say about her ability to read people? To judge those around her?

Not to mention the little nugget on the way; in the moment, she hadn't been able to stop herself from dropping the baby bomb and running away, overcome by emotion, but now she wishes she'd stuck around to see Rhys's reaction—or had given him the news in a kinder way.

And she knows he's not Tamlin—knows she doesn't have to worry about him using their child to keep her trapped, knows she doesn't have to worry that she would be bringing a child into a toxic home the way she once did, but—it's hard to believe her own mind.

Cassian's been bringing by different foods and restocking paints at her request, so she doesn't question the light knock against the hardwood of the front door. She glides to answer it, sucking in a breath when it's not Cassian but her soulmate, on his knees with bags under his eyes, on the other side of the door.

"Feyre," he whispers, the words so gentle they're almost a caress.

She hesitates, but doesn't immediately slam the door in his face, which he takes as her giving him the chance to explain.

"I—I don't know where to begin. I love you. I'm so sorry. You are—you are everything in this world and—" he cuts off abruptly, eyes drawn to where her hand curls over the swell of their child, where it had instinctively gone when shock flooded through her body. "My god. I—we—"

Feyre motions silently, not letting him continue. Reaching out her hands, she tugs him to his feet, and still without speaking presses his palm to where the baby sits, lacing her fingers through his own.

After a few moments, she pulls him to the couch, sitting close enough to feel the heat of his skin but keeping enough distance that her mind is still functional.

"I'm not—I'm not mad, anymore. I think a lot of it was…it was a lot easier to be angry, than so afraid—so terrified about what would happen to you, so constantly worried and heartbroken. And you're safe now, so—less upset. But I want to know—I would really like to hear how you figured it out, and…all the things I wasn't there for."

Rhys nods immediately, thumb still stroking over the skin that covers their baby. "Of course. Anything you want to know—now or ever."

She looks at him expectantly, and he takes a deep breath.

"The first time I knew about you…I was so young. Amarantha had recently taken over, everything in my life felt hopeless. And then one afternoon, I just—paint, everywhere. All over my arms.

He smiles fondly at the memory. "I couldn't believe I could possibly deserve—that kind of love, that kind of happiness. But the thought of it was captivating, so I wrote to you. And—you didn't answer, but washed off the paint, so I assumed you didn't want me. Knew better than the universe—knew you deserved better than me, because of courseyou did.

"But as much as I told myself I understood, I always hoped maybe you would change your mind. I'd heard such wondrous tales of soulmates growing up, and it seemed like the kind of fairy tale thing that could save me from Amarantha, you know? So I kept writing, every day for a year—figured you should know that I cared, that I was committed…that I would give anything I could.

"And you didn't answer, so I stopped, but—you drew, sometimes. It would be the highlight of my week, whenever you sketched or painted something on our skin. I didn't even know you yet, but your talent was so clear—I felt proud fate chose me for you, because surely no one could ever deserve you. And you drew the night sky so often—as if you knew instinctually, somehow. It felt like destiny."

"Then you showed up—you you, not this soulmate I sort-of knew about, but this beautiful woman who I bumped into at a miserable gala; and yet somehow your eyes seemed different—you looked like the only one who wanted to be there as little as I did. The only one who saw them all for what they truly were. And so soon after, this same Cinderella breathed life back into my cousin for the first time in years…you acted like you had nothing to say, but I knew anyone who could remind Mor of who she is like that was special, however much they'd been taught to hide it. Of course, you were also the most beautiful human being I'd ever seen, so I could never take my eyes off you long enough to think about anything else, anyway.

"But you were with him—"

(even now, he's so careful not to say the name he knows makes her flinch, the name she doesn't want to hear)

"—and I could handle it, if you were happy. You deserve that, more than anyone, and so I tried not to love you, tried to leave you alone, so you could be happy. And then you—my soul mate, you, not Feyre you—you started getting bruises," his voice quiets to a whisper. He's scanning her skin now, gripping her hand tightly, like he has to remind himself she's okay even all these months later.

"So I reached out, for the first time in years. Because even if you hated me, if you needed me, I would do anything. Anything to keep you from being hurt. But you wrote back—or at least, I thought it was you. You said to stay out of it—and I didn't want to, but after so many years of you wanting nothing to do with me…it made sense. And there wasn't anything I could do—I didn't know your name, had no way of reaching out.

"And then something was wrong with the you I knew—you were never around, and so far from being yourself it terrified me. You just…started disappearing, right in front of our eyes. And you made it clear you wanted nothing to do with us anymore, and even though that seemed out of character, there was nothing I could do there, either. When I saw you that day…god, I felt so relieved and so horrified at the same time. You were somewhere, which was good, but the way you looked…"

Rhys swallows heavily, and—it nearly bowls her over. The way she'd felt when he was captive—he'd felt that way about her. For months. Jesus.

"You were a shadow of yourself. You were acting fine, snapping at me, but it was so clear the words weren't yours; and then he showed up, and realizing he was the one breaking apart the Feyre I know just…I didn't know what to do. And I realized I loved you, and you weren't happy, and the look in your eyes was so lonely…and that night, my soul mate was being hurt, worse than ever. Even though I knew she didn't want anything to do with me, I couldn't stop myself from writing. I would've done anything to help, anything to get you out…"

"But who I thought was you wrote back to fuck off, and I just—the you that was Feyre was dying right in front of me, the you that was my soul mate was being hurt and I could do nothing but watch the hurt appear on my skin, and I…felt like I was drowning, and there was nothing I could do to help either of you.

"And then the auction…"

Feyre watches as he physically braces himself, instinctively crosses her own arms as though she can protect her own body from the memories.

"If the last time I'd seen you was bad, this was…I can't even put into words. I've never been so worried, so hopelessly terrified. And he was there just treating you like an accessory, while you looked so empty, and then he reached for you, and you flinched. And I knew—immediately, knew what that meant, wanted to kill him with my bare hands right then, was so overwhelmed by both you and my soul mate being treated so awfully and just feeling like the world was a terrible place.

"But his handwriting had looked familiar in the log, and I was thinking about you and my soul mate at the same time, and it just—hit me. And I went and checked, and—his handwriting was the one that had told me to stay out, every time, and—you were my soul mate all along.

"I couldn't—had to leave before I did something terrible, walked for hours until I was on the verge of dehydration and heat stroke, and Mor was worried out of her mind and all I said to her was 'She's my soulmate'."

"And then you disappeared again, and I couldn't—I was trying to come up with plans, ways to get you out if you were willing, trying to learn his schedule to find out a way to contact you, but nothing was working. It was iron tight, and he had too much power, and I was starting to put things into motion to come get you myself, to let this whole corporation crumble if that's what it took.

"But you called—your voice sounded so faint, and broken, but it was there, and Mor brought you home, and I just—could breathe again. You were okay—you were going to be okay.

"You'd been through so much, though; everything was still raw, and you had so much to recover from. I couldn't tell you, then—that we were soul mates, that I loved you. You needed room to breathe and—learn what it means to be safe, and have a family. You didn't need me interfering with that. And anyway, even before he was in your life you'd never indicated you wanted anything to do with me as your soul mate, so I figured at least just being your friend I could still be in your life.

"And then when I woke up in a panic attack and you couldn't tell which bottle was which, it clicked that you couldn't read. And if you hadn't been able to understand my messages all along…you might not hate me, after all. You just didn't know what I'd said—had never been able to reply. I…I had a chance, maybe.

"Not to mention I fell that much more in love with you, because you'd made it so far despite no one ever taking the time to teach you."

Feyre scrunches her nose, clearing her throat to keep from crying.

Rhys keeps going. "And then, that night at Rita's, you were—pure starlight. I'd never seen you so happy, and healing, and just…if I could bottle the way I felt looking at you, god. And it was perfect—so perfect, you in my arms, us together. But you were gone in the morning, and I just assumed you'd realized you could do better. It made sense.

"The day of the raid—we'd been running in circles around each other, hadn't spoken since that night, but—when things went south, I knew I had to tell you. Would always regret it if I didn't, and—you deserved to know. Whatever else there was, you needed to know—you are so, so loved. I love you."

Feyre sucks in a deep breath, then slides a hand into his without a word.

He watches her for a moment, waiting for her to speak. Giving her whatever space she needs to respond.

"I—from the beginning, I assumed you'd never want me. Soulmate you—when I couldn't even read the messages you were writing, and then when I met you. Just—it never made sense. You're successful and brilliant and have—everything. And I have nothing to offer. And—don't you dare interrupt me, Rhysand, no matter how much you disagree with that statement. Whether it was true or not, that's what I thought, what assumption I was working off of.

"But then, even after everything, you took me back in without cause or condition. And Lucien had heard about the last message you'd written, and—you my soulmate still wanted me.

"And as soon as you wrote that it was you, it just—god, Rhys, it made so much sense. Of course the soulmate that seemed to always know what I needed was the person who was right beside me taking care of me all along—I just, I knew I'd been hopelessly in love with you before then, but, to realize how much you'd done that I hadn't even realized was you…it was so much to process. And Artemisia was here, which was—one of the greatest things to ever happen, and you weren't even here to know, to have any idea—and what if something happened to you and you never got to see her again?

"I spent all day every day doing everything in my power to try to help the efforts to find you, to shut the whole thing down, and—whenever I wasn't I just sat around painting, trying to make something for you worth coming home to. Hating myself for waiting anxiously for bruises to pop up so I would know you'd made it through the day.

"And then, when I found out about the baby…" she presses a hand to the bump, mouth opening and closing several times as she tries to find the words. "I'd never considered having kids, before. Didn't think I'd ever be stable enough to bring any into the world, or that I would be at all competent, so I just—never let myself dwell on the prospect. But it was your baby, and somehow…I couldn't even entertain the idea of them not being born.

"I was still so terrified, because—your child deserves to know you, needs to know you. And if Tamlin had somehow found out, while he had you…" She cringes, because she's had so much time to terrify herself with exactly how the hypothetical would end.

"When we found you…god, I had so many plans. All the things I wanted to say."

She trails off, finds herself staring at where their baby sits, pressed up against her palm.

(Looks up to find Rhys's eyes locked on the same spot, completely smoldered.)

"Sorry I told you like that," she whispers eventually. "I don't—that's not how I wanted it to go. I imagined a hundred different scenarios, and in the moment I just—" her eyes well with tears, which she'd like to attribute to hormones but are more likely the result of a lot of guilt and worry that she's managed to mess up even this most precious of things. "I don't want anything in our baby's life to have that kind of anger and negativity, I don't want us to remember it like that."

"We won't. I—you could've said it even as you swore you hated me, and it doesn't change that this baby is born from love and light and only the most good things that are out there."

Rhys leans his head down to tilt his forehead against her own, and she feels a hum throughout her entire body—he is here, and safe, and he loves her.

"I missed you," she says softly, without opening her eyes. "I don't know if I could've gone on without you."

"You're the only reason I made it long enough to get out of there."

"I'm still mad at you," she mumbles, letting him pull her into a tight embrace. "You're going to be groveling for a very long time."

"I'll grovel for the rest of our lives if it makes you happy, Feyre darling," he insists, humming as he presses his lips to her hair

/

/

Weeks later, Feyre agrees to leave the Night home for the first time since everything happened; she'd refused, for a while, wanting nothing more than to curl up around her soulmate and rest, basking in them both being okay.

But Rhys wants to take her on a real date (of course he does), and has been wheedling for ages to get her to his favorite restaurant and finally manages to convince her.

(Apparently, foot rubs are her kryptonite.)

The spot he brings her to is not nearly the kind of fancy Tamlin had always wanted, or even the kind she knows Mor to love; it's a small mom and pop place, and the food takes a little bit longer but is nothing short of phenomenal.

They've never done this before, but—everything about being with Rhys comes naturally. They'd slipped into a relationship with so little effort, already knowing so much about each other and predicting each other's needs.

"The little nugget approves," she informs Rhys as they walk back to the car, her hand rubbing around where the baby's movements are the most confusing sensation

"Good, we'll have to come back, then, " he promises, pulling the hand he holds up to kiss.

(a little debonair of a motion for her tastes, but it makes him so happy to treat her like a queen)

They sing and dance terribly along to songs they both love the whole way home, and it's—everything she'd heard loving your soul mate was, but always believed was too good to be true.

(they're too distracted to catch sight of the camera lens pointed their way.)

/

It's hours later, when the PI's work catches up with them; they're upstairs, and all they hear is the sound of glass shattering before they're all rushing down to the entryway.

(Rhys and Mor both step in front of Feyre, and she wants to scowl at them for being so overprotective, but resists if only because they're protecting the little nugget, too.)

And then they get down there, and both she and Mia freeze—Tamlin. Here.

(He'd broken through a window to get inside, and the look in his eyes is pure crazy rage.)

"Primavera, what the fuck are you doing here?" Rhys's tone is icy and unfeeling—the voice he only uses when he's maintaining the devil's persona.

But Tamlin isn't looking at him—isn't looking at anyone but Feyre, lip curled as he stares at her protruding stomach.

"What did you do to her? You took her, brainwashed her, now got her pregnant? After snatching her away in the middle of the night against her will!"

(for whatever reason, this line is the one that most bugs Feyre—the one her brain can't move past.)

"The sun was shining when I left you." Her voice comes out much stronger than she feels. "And don't you dare talk about my child."

Jealous rage fills his face, and he takes a step forward. His hands clench into fists, and when he raises one—

(Feyre flinches.)

She can feel the tempers flare around her at the movement—can feel them all debating the legal repercussions of killing him right here right now.

It's Mia who steps forward—punches him square in the jaw, so hard he staggers for a moment.

Confusion appears in his eyes when he recognizes her. "You—"

"My name is Artemisia Night. I wonder how things might've ended differently if you'd known that, then.

"Not that that should matter, because the things you do, the things you make happen—unacceptable, whoever the women you're hurting are." She shudders slightly, though she tries to hide the motion. "Regardless, you messed with the wrong fucking person. Because unlike the rest of the girls you trapped me with, the ones you prey on because you know they're alone and don't have the means to fight you, you coward, I have the resources to take you out the way you should've been a long time ago."

"How do you live with yourself?" Mor speaks up, face contorted with disgust. "Facilitating a human trafficking ring, hiring men to abduct women and selling them to others? How do you sleep at night?"

"Easily," he snarls. "It supports my way of life. They're women no one will miss. Besides, the funds the ring raises can go to so many charities, it's a net positive."

"And the people who die along the way? The women you traumatize?" Mia demands, voice shaking.

"Collateral damage. Less loose ends to tie up."

Feyre shudders, wraps both arms around her bump protectively. "You're a monster. I can't believe I ever shared a bed with you."

"Yes, well, you'll share with anyone who can keep you taken care of, won't you Feyre?" His smirk makes her nauseous. "I do miss you—in bed especially. And your departure managed to convince many of my closest associates I was less than the golden boy, which has been an unnecessary complication."

You beat the shit out of me and had sex with my unmoving body, and you're just standing here, in the home I had to drag myself up from the wreckage to come into, justifying the things you've done.

The front door slams open, then, flying form its hinges. "Police! On the ground, hands behind your back, you have the right to remain silent."

Feyre didn't see anyone call, but then she supposes she shouldn't be surprised—her family has their ways.

It happens quickly, then, him in handcuffs, being taken away, statements and police tape and the like.

Though Tamlin is very clearly the one the officers are after, she watches Rhys, Cass, Az, and Mia all carefully hold their hands in front of them, making sure they're visibly empty.

it's such a practiced movement—even in their own home, having called the cops on an intruder, there's no assuming they're safe. no assuming they'll automatically be seen as the victim here.

(a motion she and Rhys will have to teach their child—the dangers, of living in a country that doesn't presume you innocent if you have the 'wrong' amount of melanin.)

(and this is the richest family in the country. what happens to everyone else)

As soon as the chaos is gone, Feyre slumps against Rhys, joins the rest of them seated around the table looking shaken.

"I can't believe you actually called the cops. I thought for sure you'd try to get rid of him yourselves."

"Tempting," Az admits. "But with this one…even if we wanted to, I think we all deserve a break. And it's more than just him—the whole ring needs to go down."

"But he'll just deny everything and buy his way out as usual—it's all corrupt, and he's too good at covering his tracks," Feyre says, swallowing thickly.

"Not this time," Mor promises, turning to her soulmate. "You got it, right love?"

Amren nods, holding up a voice recorder with a shark like smile. "The bastard is going down, this time."

/

And he does—gets out of the death penalty and several charges by turning on the rest of the operation, but he's still locked up for life, and everyone he snitched on ends up in prison.

(It's—better, but not everything has changed.)

"I don't want to do this anymore," Rhys whispers into Feyre's shoulder early one morning, the light just barely creeping in through the blinds.

She pulls back to look at him, eyes teasingly narrowed. "As we are married, soul bonded, and I am eight months pregnant with your child I am going to assume you're referring to something other than our relationship."

"Of course," Rhys admonishes, twirling the lock of her hair his fingers are ensnared in. "Can you imagine how much I would lose it if I tried to break up with you?"

"You would definitely cry."

"Oh, for sure. Mor would come rushing in to save me and end up laughing at the sight of me devolving."

"It would be the baby's bedtime story for the first five years of his life," Feyre grins—then winces when she realizes she's messed up.

"His?" Rhys sits up straighter.

"I may have accidentally seen over the OB's shoulder at the ultrasound yesterday. I know we wanted to wait, but it was right there, and you were distracting her, and I just couldn't help myself."

Rhys snorts, tries not to let on that he's a bit choked up at the revelation. "Of course you did."

(We're having a son.)

"But really, what do you not want to do anymore?"

"Just—the persona. The evil Rhysand Night that kicks puppies and hates kindness and joy. That's not the person I ever want our kid…our son to think of me as—I don't want him to even believe I'm capable of it. And I'm tired of pretending, and as much good as we do, I just…don't want to live in that world anymore."

"So don't," Feyre replies like it's the easiest thing in the world. "Just work in the creative companies you've been backing all along—don't give me that look, I didn't mean to snoop, but I came across some things while you were gone. It's not like you need the money the corporation brings you—and if you think the work done there is that important, you can always hand off its leadership to someone else who wants to be doing that work. You don't have to take on the whole world, Rhys."

"Maybe," he whispers, unsure.

"Not maybe—if it's what you want, you can do it. There's nothing standing in your way, now. Me and little nugget will be with you wherever you end up."

/

When he's taking Mia to renew her license, he smiles at the sight of little notes popping up along her arms in various shades of neon gel pen.

He'd never understood Feyre's friendship with Lucien, but—seeing the way he so gently encourages Rhys's little sister without overwhelming her makes his heart warm.

(He's a pretty good man.)

"If I sold Night Corp…cool?" Rhys asks at a red light, carefully watching Mia's face for anything she won't say.

"Yes," she blurts out immediately. "One hundred percent. Let's burn the place down—not actually, because we could do a lot with the money from selling, but. You know."

Rhys laughs, reaches to squeeze her shoulder. "Yeah, okay." After a moment, he tilts his head curiously. "You have any clue what you want to do next?"

"I'm playing around with a few ideas. Luc is going into private security, which—sounds cool, and it makes sense. But I don't think I want to be around that kind of environment, in any capacity—I don't think I can do that sort of toxic atmosphere, after everything. I've done enough of that. I've been toying around with the idea of nursing school, maybe. Feyre and I have been studying for the GED together, and—it would be nice, to be able to help people, in a way that isn't tainted in my memory.

Feyre's mentioned the GRE study sessions to him, of course, seeing as they're effectively one organism and incapable of keeping secrets from each other. But he wasn't sure if Mia wanted him to know, until now—their relationship has been more awkward than it once was, after everything they've both been through.

(The memories they want to protect each other from.)

"That would be pretty amazing. I'd trust you to stick me with a needle."
"Such high praise," Mia says, words dripping with sarcasm, but her eyes are lit up like they've been so rarely since having her back.

Things are by no means perfect, by no means fixed, but—it's a start.

(and they're going to make it.)

/ /

/ /

/ /

They name him Horus, because they're nerds, and for whatever reason Rhys fancies himself death incarnate and claims it makes sense.

And he's just—the coolest kid, Feyre thinks, completely objectively. Always offers his toys to whoever's around, happy as long as there's music playing.

(He's the spitting image of Rhys, so he's pretty perfect in every way.)

Rhys had talked her into letting them have a guys' day at the aquarium so she could actually get some projects done, and Feyre's both exhausted and exhilarated when she heads back.

As much as she loves devoting herself to her art, she's even more happy when she's at home with her best guys; she's gotten updates throughout the day, the patented 'check yes or no' boxes she and Rhys scribble on the back of their hands for quick response decision making (e.g. octopus stuffed animal the size of Amren? _yes _no)

(she said no to that one, but she has a feeling he might have ignored her—it seems more for his benefit than Horus's, anyway.)

When she comes home from the studio she finds everyone in the living room; Cass and Horus are enraptured by the Wiggles—Horus beams at her, dutifully kisses her cheek and lets her squeeze him before returning his attention to the show. Mor and Az are deep in conversation about some piece of Russian literature, and Rhys is dramatically waving his arms and yelling at Amren, who looks entirely unbothered.

"No, Amren, he is two years old, you are not teaching him ju jitsu yet—well, I don't care if it's Christmas!"

Feyre approaches them half-giggling, wrapping her arms around Rhys's waist. "And Christmas isn't for another week, Am—Mor's rubbing off on you."

Amren is unamused. "Do you have any idea how long tinsel and lights have been hung around our apartment? A week away is nothing."

Horus comes running up and catapults himself at Feyre's legs, his episode having ended and the football game he and Cass decided to watch next on a commercial.

"Mamama! Color?"

"Of course we can color, little man," she smiles, lifting him to her hip. "Did you and Daddy have fun today?"

"Yeah! An Cass-cass. Saw fish!" He raises his hands excitedly, like he just can't contain how great the day has been.

"Uncle Cass does make most things more fun," Feyre agrees, rolling her eyes at the smug look on the man in question's face.

Lucien is watching Mor and Az's conversation, looking fascinated, but—

"Where's Aunt Mia?"

"Pizza!" Horus informs her, eyes bright.

"Of course she is," Feyre rolls her eyes, turning the mom look onto her husband. "I thought you were making chicken marsala tonight?"

"Yes, well, you see, the thing is, Horus and Mia ganged up on me and I'm not strong enough to tell them no."

And it's—crazy. If she had seen herself five years ago, she never would've believed it. Going from feeling so alone in the world, to being so unfalteringly happy, so surrounded by love and care even on the bad days. To having her soul mate, who'd cared so much, no matter who she was or what she'd done.

This kind of stability and love, it's…everything. She couldn't ask for anything more.

(The bad days are still there—all the time. She still feels broken, sometimes.)

Rhys smiles, cranes his neck to peck her cheek.

(being broken is okay when she's with him.)