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oatmealwrites · 1 month ago

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A Night To...Forget? Ch.4

Aizawa x Eidetic memory! Law student! F Reader

Part 3 | Part 5

[a night to forget masterlist here]

Synopsis: It's time for you the case debrief going over the prosecution process for a handful of members captured from the LOV. Aizawa waits for you after the meeting concludes as your mentor pawns off even more work for you to complete. Minutes turn to hours and eventually he's offering you a ride home...

Tags: Jealous! Aizawa, he's kinda cute and caring hehe, mentions of car sex, mention of erection, mention of female arousal, make out, french kissing, hickies, hair pulling, horny thoughts, 'what are we', he's down bad, so are you tho, Keigo is an indirect instigator, 18+, MDNI

Word count: 6k

[it's getting hot n heavy...]

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The debrief is scheduled to begin promptly at 3:45 on Tuesday afternoon at your mentor’s office with a handful of heroes from UA, first responders, and prosecution team working on the case. Just prior to the student dorms being built, an attack against the students of classes 1-a and 1-b from the LOV resulted in a few arrests that now needed to be filtered through the judicial systems. Both the pro-heroes and police responders who were in attendance are at this meeting.

You linger in the breakroom, watching the way coffee drips into the glass pot and fills the air with a warm aroma, silently counting down the hours left until you could clock out. Leaning against the counter, you straighten the fabric of your newly returned blazer and tap the side of your mug to an impatient rhythm.

You clocked in promptly at 9:30 this morning after your 8am lecture and haven’t left since. Keigo texted you a few hours earlier, a mix of daily life updates and the link to a brand new fried chicken shop he happened to hear about, but you haven’t been able to fully respond.

Ughhh

A soft ‘beep’ emits from the coffee maker and you slide the glass pot from its stand to pour the hot contents into your awaiting mug. You stayed up way too late last night….aside from your evening moment of ‘self care’, you struggled to fall asleep with nerves keeping you awake. It was a weird mix of giddiness at the prospect of going on a date and anxiety that you were misinterpreting a ‘work dinner’.

“Ready for the debrief? I’m hoping to have all the paperwork signed before 5.”

The voice of your mentor resonates from the entrance of the break room causing you to instantly stand up a little straighter. He chuckles and saunters in, reaching for the coffee pot and grabbing a spare mug from the counter.

You back up a little bit and bring the ceramic mug to your lips to blow steam away. “Yes, sir. Hopefully it will go smoothly.”

He doesn’t turn to you when he responds, too focused on his own beverage to look up. “Good, good. I have to run out of here at 6pm on the dot…. Mind filing the residual documents and forwarding copies to all parties? Need it done in 48 hours.”

You pause, mentally adding up all the hours it would take to complete such a task before he spins around and gives you a pat on the back while heading for exit.

“Thanks, kid!” He waves with his back facing you, and heads for the conference room.

Great.

You sigh into your cup and can feel a migraine already beginning to form from the amount of tasks you have to complete. A late night would be guaranteed tonight, and you could always come into the office before your class tomorrow morning…. On top of the other case assignments you have to sort through.

Making a mental note to update your agenda, you glance at the clock on the wall and resolve to finally head for the conference room. You were only supposed to take meeting minutes for this debrief and highlight applicable clauses the prosecution team and heroes can use during the case. Not the most involved role, but a mentally draining one regardless.

Small heels clicking on the granite office floors, you walk down the hallway past glass office windows and pull the meeting room door open. A variety of police officers are already inside, along with the majority of the prosecution team and the heroes ‘Erasurehead’ and ‘Vlad King’.

Mindless chatter fills the space, but as soon as you make your way into the room Aizawa looks up from his conversation with Kan and locks eyes with you. The baggy pro-hero uniform enhances the rugged look while his hair is left down and tousled from the commute over.

Damn, he’s hot.

Swallowing any horny inappropriate thoughts and maintaining a professional decorum, you raise your hand in a slight wave ‘hello’ which he immediately returns. Kan notices and follows his gaze to you, offering a slight greeting as well before throwing a gentle elbow into the side of his colleague; Aizawa blinks once before murmuring something under his breath to the man.

You peel your eyes off the two of them and observe the large oval table that makes up the majority of the room. At the main head is your mentor with support prosecution staff flanking both sides until it dissolves into police officers and finally Aizawa and Kan on the mirroring end. You roll out a chair from between another lawyer and first responder and sit down; taking out your pad and pen, you wait for the meeting to commence.

It’s relatively routine; there’s a detailed review of the evening, timeline of the act and arrest, and a list of charges the villains can be prosecuted under given the offense. You occasionally remind the legal limitation regarding one of the arrests, a middle school boy, and offer separate charges given his age before the debrief is nearly done.

Going from your notes to observing everything being discussed, you can’t help but glance in Aizawa’s direction every so often. And every time you look up, he’s already staring in your direction.

It’s awkward at first, both of you immediately looking away once you realize you’ve been caught, before inevitably glancing back over once again. By the end of the meeting, when you lock eyes he doesn’t turn away; Aizawa holds the gaze until you eventually look back down at your meeting notes with cheeks dusted red.

“Alright everyone.” Your mentor stands up and signals to you. “Y/N is going to assist in the paperwork process for the case. You’ll be contacting her for documents, case updates, and any questions you have.”

You rise to your feet and give a light wave to the table, ready to introduce yourself before your mentor cuts you off. “I have to excuse myself given the hour, but please don’t hesitate to remain here until you’re all caught up to speed on the process.”

An invitation to the heroes and police officers, but a silent obligation reminding you of your now ensured overtime work. The table stands up as you pass out a variety of legal documents that require their signature and explain the estimated timeline for the court cases if there’s no bail payment or appeals.

After about 30 minutes of questions and document processing, the conference room is nearly empty except for Aizawa, Kan, and a few other prosecutors on the case. Tapping a stack of documents against the table, you reach forward to collect a few scatter papers and sort them into the pile in family name order.

The sun has already set given the time of year, and the fluorescent lights from other offices outside have flicked on. From the large glass window wall of the conference room, you can see into said office buildings and peer down at the busy traffic picking up from the street below.

“Heading home soon?”

Aizawa’s deep voice rumbles from behind you, and you spin to admire the man once again before sorting the last paper into the pile; Kan stands further behind him on his phone, scrolling without thought as he waits for his colleague. You sigh and hug the stack into your chest and lean against the glossy wooden table.

“No, I have to scan all of these before digitally and physically filing them.”

Aizawa raises an eyebrow and glances down at the pile. “That’s a lot of work. You’re doing it all by yourself?”

“I mean, yea? I have to send you, and everyone else, a copy within 2 days so I have to get a headstart tonight.”

The man in front of you frowns at the response and looks over at the clock on the wall which ticks absentmindedly.

“It’s nearly 7pm already. How late are you staying?”

You blink and peel your eyes off of him and down to the papers in your hands. “Uh, maybe another 2 hours?”

Aizawa scoffs and furrows his brows at the response but doesn’t say anything right away. It’s not like he’s your boss and can give you better working hours, but the complacency you have in the shitty task makes him annoyed that you’ve grown used to being so overworked.

When he still doesn’t answer, you pivot past him and flip through the first documents on the top before opening the conference door with your hip.

“I’ll bring you home then.”

Stopping the door with your foot, you pause in the doorway while Aizawa walks over in an effort to follow you to the printer. Kan stops scrolling on his phone and shrugs at the man; his attention preoccupied on a food order app that he has pulled up.

“Wait, what?”

Aizawa doesn’t answer you and instead turns to his coworker. “Is that alright, Kan? I know we drove here together, but I’d like to make sure she gets home safe.”

Kan looks back up and heads towards the room exit as well, giving a slight eyebrow at the chivalry Aizawa was offering you. “That’s fine. I was going to stop by this one restaurant nearby anyways. There’s a train station not far from it.”

The three of you now standing in the hallway, flourenscent lights reflecting on the shiny stone floors, you look between the two men.

“W-Wait you don’t have to–” your voice is quiet as the two continue speaking as if you weren’t even in there.

“Ah, so it works out then. I’ll be back on campus by around 10, hopefully the dorms won't be burned down by then.”

Kan laughs and sets up the map feature for the walk to the restaurant. “With this year’s class I wouldn’t be surprised. But Toshinori is covering your students, so they should be ok.”

Words dead in your throat, your body acts on autopilot to wave goodbye to the pro-hero as Aizawa stands beside you; once Kan disappears into the elevator, you snap back into reality.

“Wait. You don’t need to do all of this! I’ll be ok.”

Aizawa turns and finally looks down at you with a neutral face as if he had offered you advice on a good recipe he heard of, not a ride home in his car.

“It’s dangerous to walk around late at night.”

You raise an eyebrow and spin to head towards the printer. “Why, because I’m a lady?”

“Yes. And, you’re working with heroes carrying important legal information. That makes you an even bigger target.” He replies while following you.

You purse your lips and line up the first set of documents into the tray before tapping though the options on the screen, “Touche.”

Aizawa watches you start the scan, collect the papers, and load up the next set to the tray. You’ve done this a million times before, but having an audience watch your every move is a mix of comforting at the company and nerve wracking considering it’s him.

He sits in a plush office seat facing the printer and crosses his legs in contentment while resting his head in his hand.

“Do you usually work this late?”

You load the next set of papers and look at the screen option selections. “Mmm, sometimes. When there’s big cases like this one… yea. Sometimes later.”

Aizawa grunts and peers out of the window. “It’s bad to head home so late… and alone.”

The word choice makes your gut stir in multiple ways; anticipation and curiosity at his tone leaves you speechless for a moment. Whirring as it scans the next set of papers, you rock back on your heels and glance over at the man.

“Keigo walks me home sometimes.”

He holds your gaze and his jaw tightens at the mention of Keigo’s name; he swings his leg off the other and splays his thighs to sit back in the chair more comfortably. The movement has your gaze lingering on the muscular swell of his legs a moment too long before awkwardly spinning back around to load in the next set of documents.

Aizawa exhales as you place the last set of papers in the tray and press the ‘start’ button to finish the scan. “You should’ve told me– or someone– to bring you home all those times.”

His subtle save at offering anybody else in helping you home leaves a warm feeling in your chest; you collect the papers and stack them into the same neat pile before motioning for him to follow you.

Heels clicking softly, you head over to your cubicle near your mentor’s main office. “Well, you’re here now to bring me home. So it's ok.” You place the stack on your desk and slide out your rolling chair.

Aizawa leans against the half-wall and watches the way you sit in front of your computer and pull up the new scans that have been forwarded to your email. Silently, he pushes off the wall and walks over to another cubicle to roll your colleague's office chair over to your own.

“Sorry, this must be pretty boring.” You mumble, saving the documents into new folders based on the signature’s name.

The man beside you hums and pulls out his phone to sort through his messages, clearly in no rush to go home.

Minutes feels like hours, and it takes roughly 90 minutes to have everything organized in digital folders on the company cloud, email all recipients their respective copy, and prepare an outline of the prosecution timeline. Tomorrow you could better go through the individual charges and sort out which court the case would be filtering through; sitting back in your chair, you crack your back while raising your arms above your head.

Satisfied with the few ‘pops’ that emit from your spine, you spin in your chair and peer over at the empty space where Aizawa had been sitting. When did he leave? Putting your computer on sleep mode, you stand and push in your chair before returning your coworker’s seat to their cubicle.

Most overhead lights are off, and while you slide your belongings into your soft briefcase, a set of footsteps echoes on the granite floor. Only throwing your winter puffer coat over your blazer and straightening out your skirt does a voice ring out.

“Oh, you're finished?”

Aizawa stands at the entrance of your cubicle with two paper cups of coffee and a small bag of chips tucked under his arm.

“I grabbed these in case you needed more time…”

Blinking for a moment, a grin spreads across your lips as you take the snack from under his arm and place it on your desk. “You didn’t need to do that.”

“Maybe, the two coffees were for me.”

Aizawa cracks a small smirk as you shake your head and graciously take a cup from his hand and blow away the steam. “Thank you, though. That's very sweet of you.”

He smiles gently back at you, a small heat on his cheeks, before pivoting to take in the dark and emptiness of the office around you. It’s cold and lonely; the large glass windows reflect the city lights and the lack of color in the furniture limits the personality of the building.

“Ready? I parked in the garage underground; I assume we can just take the elevator down?”

“Yep.”

You adjust the straps of your briefcase and walk next to him, heart pounding at the proximity despite sitting next to him for the past 2 hours. Aizawa matches your speed and eyes the way you fiddle with the bag to get a better weight balance; your winter coat causes the fabric to slip off your shoulder occasionally.

“Here, let me.”

Deft hands wrap around the leather, and you pause in surprise before tilting your head down for him to slide the straps off. Silently, Aizawa places it on his own shoulder and motions for you to continue walking towards the elevator.

“You didn’t have to do that either; it’s kinda heavy…”

Aizawa doesn’t answer for a moment before pressing the call button for the lift and shrugging. “It’s pretty light. Besides, it’s probably annoying to carry this while wearing those.”

He points to your puffy coat and kitten heeled shoes when the elevator dings upon arrival and you both step in. The silence in between your conversation isn’t awkward or forced; the casualness of it all makes your heart swell in a domestic sort of way.

“It should be part of hero training for you. Saving people in heels would be the needed score to pass.”

“That sounds more like torture.” He rolls his eyes but keeps a small grin on his lips.

“Oh? Think you would fail?”

The elevator descends down to the level -3 and you both step out into the cold and lonely parking garage. Most cars have left, and the only two you can spot are two sedans; a sleek black model and an older gray one. Aizawa digs out his car keys and unlocks the newer car from a distance causing the headlights to turn on; walking past the silver car, you notice the windows are completely fogged.

“Huh?”

You both pause and watch the car for a moment before an embarrassed blush covers both of your faces; it jerks side to side on occasion before a hand shoots up to blur the condensation of the fog on the back passenger window. Both you and Aizawa stand there for a moment in shock at the scene before awkwardly turning your attention back to his car and walking faster.

“Well.. uh, i guess a few people were working late–” he awkwardly mumbles, opening the driver’s door and sliding behind the wheel.

You take your briefcase back from his hands and place it at your feet while buckling, “oh.. Yea.”

It’s an uncomfortable atmosphere that Aizawa notices before he reaches forward to turn on the radio and steer the car towards the garage exit. The last station playing was a real time news outlet relaying current events and traffic information on the nearby highways.

He rolls down his window to scan the paper visitor pass before the gate opens up and the car pulls into the street.

“Where are we headed?”

“Oh, right!” you sit upright and tap the address to your apartment on the screen of the car navigation system before sheepishly apologizing.

The open endedness of the question isn’t lost on you though, he was asking where to go… not necessarily implying you two were going straight to dropping you off. Did he want to get a drink? Go for a drive? Maybe–

“Why do you keep doing that?”

His voice is deep and sincere while his eyes occasionally drift off the road to look over at you; short winter parka still zipped up to your chin, you tilt your head in confusion. “What do you mean?”

Smooth hands turn the wheel at an intersection before the car rolls to a stop at a light; red LEDs painting you both in a warm glow.

“You keep apologizing. Why?”

“I don’t know…” you dig your chin into your coat collar and look out the windshield at the car ahead of you before glancing back at Aizawa. “I just feel bad when people go out of their way when it’s unnecessary.”

A short horn peels his attention back to the road; the light now green and his foot hitting the acceleration from the impatient driver behind you both. A sigh escapes his lips as he occasionally glances between the road, the navigation, and you.

“It’s not unnecessary. Helping you isn’t unnecessary… I offered because I want to, not because I’m obligated to.”

Heat rises to your face and you squirm slightly in your seat at the conversation; the intensity and confidence in his own explanation makes your pulse spike. You absentmindedly tap against the window button on the side of the car door and glance at the passing buildings as the scenery becomes more residential from the proximity to your neighborhood.

“But it is your obligation. You’re a hero so… you have to do nice things.”

It’s the only thought that prevents you from fully believing the man at your side was giving you special treatment and not simply fulfilling his usual role of assisting people. Now that it hangs in the air, Aizawa remains quiet for a moment with his hands tracing the seam of the leather wheel in silent thought.

“Listen, y/n.. I–”

RING!

Aizawa is cut off by your cell phone buzzing away in your bag which instantly cuts the tension in the situation. With a sigh and slight apology, you lean over to dig through the contents of your leather briefcase before pulling out your phone and rolling your eyes at the caller ID plastered on the screen.

Incoming Call: Bird Brain [Keigo]

Decline Accept

Aizawa motions for you to answer, unable to read the person’s contact on the screen and continues driving; his eyes linger on you through his peripherals as you scoff while accepting the call.

“What do you want?”

“Woaaaa what’s with the hostility right away? I haven’t even said anything~” Keigo’s voice jokes from the other side of the line.

You lean against the window and watch the traffic trickle to nearly nothing as Aizawa keeps his eyes on the road. You weren’t particularly in the mood for a phone call with him right now; too tired from a long day of work to hear about whatever ramblings he had this time.

“Ok, fine. What’s up?”

He laughs lightly on the other side. “Well, since you haven’t answered any of my texts, I wanted to know if you wanted to stop by that chicken place I sent you.”

You glance at the clock on the car screen and raise an eyebrow. “At this hour? Aren’t they probably closed?”

Keigo doesn’t answer for a moment, the sound of a microwave beeping in the background and feet shuffling can be heard before he answers. “Yea, they are.”

“Then why are you–”

This prick. He’s obviously not still out, considering the background noise of kitchen equipment and suddenly an array of slight construction work can be heard on the other end.

You sit up right and clench the phone tight in your hand; Aizawa looks over and raises an eyebrow, ready to ask if you’re alright before you raise your voice into the phone.

“Are you at my apartment?!”

Keigo presumably shuts the microwave door and leans into his shoulder holding up the phone with a laugh. “Hey~ winner winner, chicken din–”

“You asshole; what’s the point of asking me to dinner if you’re already at my house?”

A slight curse from the temperature of the plate causes Keigo to pause before replying. “So you can’t skip out on it. Duh. I picked it up earlier after my parole and figured you would probably be getting off work around now.”

If Aizawa was doing his very best not to eavesdrop earlier, he made no effort to hide it now. You give him an apologetic glance while his eyebrows are furrowed at the conversation; his jaw noticeably tighter ever since the phrase ‘ask me to dinner’ left your lips.

Pinching your temple with your thumb and index finger, you lean against the cool glass of the window and sigh. “Alright, whatever. I’ll be home in–” you glance at the navigation, “3 minutes. So please don’t burn down my apartment in the meantime.”

“No promises~”

Silently cursing yourself for ever giving him a spare key, you end the call and rub your temples in stress from his stupid antics. Aizawa swallows thickly and continues down the road, your apartment building and slight scaffolding from renovations, coming into view.

“Is everything alright?”

His voice causes you to look up and face the man at your side, suddenly embarrassed for how much of a bitch you probably sounded like when yelling at your friend on the phone. Cutting your losses, you shrug and slide your phone into your pocket as Aizawa turns into the parking lot.

“Yea, just Keigo inviting himself over. As usual.”

Sucking in the flesh of his cheek between his molars, Aizawa glides the vehicle into a ‘Visitor - 15 Minute Parking’ spot but keeping his foot on the brake and the car in drive. You shuffle to organize your belongings as the news continues playing in the background while Aizawa plugs in the directions back to UA campus.

“Does he do that a lot?”

You look up from your briefcase at the man and shrug slightly. “Yea, kinda.”

He nods once and turns back to the screen before frowning and glancing back at you; a serious look on his face now as a million indiscernible thoughts run through his head.

“Maybe we should cancel next week.”

Huh?

Your heart drops to your stomach, and you turn your head up at him so fast that your neck nearly cracks from the speed.

“W-what? Why?”

Aizawa awkwardly scratches the light scruff on his chin that has already begun to grow back from yesterday’s shave. “It would impose on what you and...him have going on. I don’t want to make things weird between you two.”

…

Me and… him?

“Him…? -KEIGO?”

Aizawa winces at the tone before looking at you as if you were the crazy one in this conversation. Sitting back upright in your seat, briefcase haphazardly open at your feet, you bring your hands up and shake your head violently.

“Yea, you two are close–”

“No!” you wave your hands again “I mean, yes, we’re close. But not like that. We’re best friends, not anything else.”

Aizawa silently calculates your response and watches the way you’ve spun in your seat to lean closer to the center console to deny his suspension. Taking a few deep breaths, you calm down and stare into his dark eyes, silently trying to communicate you’re serious.

He waits a moment and wets his lips; his eyes never leaving yours. “That’s all?”

“That’s all.”

Your immediate response is a bit desperate, but you’d be damned if you let Keigo indirectly cause your date(?) to be canceled. Aizawa nods once, his foot still on the break but his body facing yours; the proximity and intensity of the situation causes arousal to pool in the fabric of your panties.

He swallows thickly once more, his eyes leaving your own to now stare down at the shine of chapstick on your lips. “So he won’t mind that we’re getting dinner next week?”

Your own gaze lingers on his lips as you lean in slightly to portray more certainty. “No, he won’t.”

Aizawa nods once, his eyes flickering up to yours for a moment before settling back down your lips. In a moment of clarity, he begins backing up in his seat, realizing the thick sexual tension in the atmosphere before you lean in again.

“He won’t mind–...”

Your words trail off, but the bait works as Aizawa leans back down again, presumably to continue the conversation before you pivot forward and connect your lips to his. It only lasts a few seconds, and the stiffness of his lips makes your heart rate spike.

Fuck. what if he didn’t–

“Hmpf”

Before you can overanalyze the aftermath of your actions, Aizawa snakes his hand up behind your head and tugs your lips back into his with force. Eyes fluttering shut and cunt clenching pathetically around nothing, your hand digs into the fabric of his hero uniform and pulls him in even closer.

Head tilting slightly, you part your lips to breathe for a moment before reconnecting your lips; the kiss no longer timid but now full of desperation and longing. Pouring all the pitiful months you spent thinking about him into the action, Aizawa doesn't hesitate to meet the intensity with equal force.

Your nose brushing into his cheek while the slight stubble rubs into the flesh of your chin, your hand raises to wrap around his shoulders and grab at his long, unruly hair. The kiss stays closed-mouth until his lips part slightly to lick your own in a silent question to open; the moment they do, his tongue is snaking inside your mouth and grinding against your own.

Hot muscle running along yours, the bitter taste of black coffee makes your mind fuzzy as your fingers pull at the long tresses of his hair. On one particular tug, a groan escapes his throat and reverberates on your lips before the car jerks.

“Oh.. shit–”

Aizawa releases his gentle hold on your waist from over the console and pivots his body back to the wheel. “Forgot to put this in park. Heh..”

Hand firmly adjusting the shifter and sliding it to ‘park’, you barely have a moment to wonder if the moment is over before he’s clicking off his seat belt and leaning in once again. Effectively silenced by his tongue, your hands wrap around his neck again and find solace in his hair; lips chasing yours every time you part for air, Aizawa runs his tongue against yours one more time before sitting back slightly.

Saliva running down the corner of your lips, your hand lifts to wipe it away while panting and staring at the man in front of you. Aizawa’s pupils are blown wide, causing his already dark eyes to become even more unreadable as he stares at you like prey; his chest lifts with each pant escaping his lips.

Blinking once, but not moving, you sit up slightly and glance towards the back seat with a mind hazy with pent up sexual desire. Sure, you didn’t expect to be so horny as to silently offer fucking in the back seat of his car…but desperate times call for…

Aizawa doesn’t give you the chance to finish the thought process, instead he reaches over to release the seat belt holding you to the passenger seat and wraps his fingers around the zipper of your coat. Only tugging it down maybe 6 inches from your chin, he tugs the fabric open as his eyes are locked on your throat the same way a wolf stalks a rabbit.

Pulse beating rapidly, he doesn’t hesitate to lean into the warmth of your neck and connect his lips to the flesh in an array of open mouth kisses. Gasp escaping your lips as Aizawa’s free hands reaches up to tug your head juuust slightly to the side to allow for more room, his teeth begin to sink into the delicate flesh.

“Oh… fuck-”

Bitting your lip to prevent from embarrassing yourself further, Aizawa’s lips find the thrumming heart rate on your pulse point and latch his mouth to the area in a drunken haze. His body is half over the shallow console, pining you to the leather seat and car door as his mouth sucks ugly purple bruises all over the flesh of your neck.

Nimble fingers rub circles into your hips with enough force that you can feel the pressure of his fingertips through the thick pencil skirt and lower portion of your blazer; your hands tug at the strands of his hair while clawing at him in a desperate attempt to be closer, closer, closer.

You need him. Pussy aching and dripping into the flimsy fabric of your panties leaves your thighs sticky and desperately rubbing together in a pathetic heat to ease the desire.

A hot tongue runs down the side of your neck to soothe the bullied skin while the tip of Aizawa’s nose tickles the flesh just under your ear. Hips twitching at the sensation as your mind becomes a puddle of feral attraction.

“Stop squirming.” Strong hands push you further into the seat as Aizawa glances at your drunken face before moving hair away from the other side of your neck. “Gotta keep still f’me.”

Lips latching on to the other side of your throat, your back arches uncomfortably in the car and you tilt your hips further into his hands. Surely he’s just as horny as you are.. So why won’t he…?

“A-Aizawa–”

“Shōta.” He corrects, before digging his canines into the flesh just above where your pretty corporate button up sits on your neck.

“...shit.. S-Shōta–” Mind reeling as your hands leave the mess of his hair and fall to his capture weapon, pathetically clawing at it to loosen from his shoulders.

As soon as you’re able to pull maybe a single loop of the scarf from his neck, Aizawa backs up away from your bruised throat and wraps a hand around your own. A silent plea to stop, your fingers drop the material and peer up at him as you both pant and take in the moment around you.

“Is something..wrong?” You question nervously, wondering if you had been rushing things.

Aizawa breathes deeply a few more times, his lips swollen from their suction on your neck, and focuses his breath to calm himself rather than calm you.

“Not like this… I can’t do this with you, in here.” He motions to the car and shuts his eyes for a brief moment, using all the strength in the world to not pivot you both to the back seat and continue where you left off. “I want this, but– it needs to happen a certain way… a better way. It would be rude to take you in here when I’ve already planned it out properly.”

If you weren’t completely drunk in sexual desire, your heart would be doing cartwheels at his desperate admission to imagining having sex with you in a more gentlemanly fashion than the back seat of his car. It’s honestly more chivalrous than half the shitty dates you’ve been on.

Panting slightly and sitting upright, you nod and try to cool yourself off from the situation; the 'what the fuck just happened' topic lingers in the air. Brushing through your hair and zipping your coat up to your chin once more; a nervous anticipation builds as you can feel the slick in your panties stick to your thighs.

He was able to get you so embarrassingly wet without even removing either of your clothes. Bicep flexing in his shirt as he adjusts his capture weapon, you silently settle on the outcome that you were absolutely fucked.

Aizawa shifts uncomfortably in his seat and positions his seat belt delicately across his waist; the action makes your eyes dip down to the very noticeable erection in his pants before embarrassingly peeling away.

“I guess I should go inside then.” You offer awkwardly while sliding the briefcase strap over your shoulder.

“Yea...”

Aizawa swallows thickly and taps on the navigation screen for the fastest route back to UA while you open the passenger side door and wince at the cold wind blowing. Not totally standing upright, you pivot back to face him and take a breath of sexual-tension-induced courage.

“So, I’ll see you next week then? For our date?”

The wording makes Aizawa whip his head in your direction this time, and his eyes are wide with dusted cheeks; he looks as if he wasn’t just sucking the nastiest bruises into your neck. “O-Oh, yea of course. Our date.”

You smile at his sudden reserved nature and lean over to plant a small kiss to the side of his cheek; lips brushing his slight stubble before you fully stand up and exit the car. Aizawa cranes his neck to watch you through the passenger window as you shut the door and offer a slight wave before running to the lobby of your apartment building to escape the winter wind.

His hand grazing the spot where you kissed him, Aizawa’s brain finally catches up with what just happened as all the oxygen escapes his lungs. You watch him from the entrance for a moment, enjoying the heat and giggling as he takes several minutes to compose himself. Phone pinging with ‘WYA’ messages from Keigo, you don’t bother to take your eyes off his car until it leaves the parking lot and drives down the road out of view.

a/n : its finally doneeee

I've finally found a better way to get into writing and the speed at which i finished this is kinda impressive

ANYWAYS, it's getting steamy and i'm thinking of making ch.5 a whole moment hehe [plot will still be continuing dw, we will eventually fully learn what happened that night ;) ]

reblogs/comments/likes all appreciated! lmk if you wanna join the tag list

-oatmeal <33

Tags: @idkidk32 @h0n3y-l3m0n05 @aizawasbaeee @smashley351 @beachaddict48 @lynnesm @lashaemorow @kriscr0ss @hotvillianapologist @loverofdeepspace

#aizawa shouta x reader #aizawa shota #aizawa shouta #aizawa shouta smut #aizawa smut #aizawa shouta x reader smut #aizawa shota x reader smut #bnha x reader #bnha x reader smut #bnha smut #mha x reader #mha x reader smut #mha smut #oamtealwritesaizawa #oatmealwordsaizawa

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the-lonelybarricade · 2 months ago

Text

Rain Check? - Feysand Oneshot

Summary: 5 times Rhysand didn't take his shot, and the one time Feyre took too many

@carrieeve It's me! Hi! I'm your santa, it's me!

For the @acotargiftexchange, you told me you'd like an AU oneshot that was Feysand focused with a friends to lovers plot - I deliberated a long time over how best to bring that vision to life, and then after some light blog stalking, I saw that you're a fan of Jim/Pam from the Office! I started binging the show for research purproses, and a Feysand office romance was born! 🥰

I really hope you enjoy it! It's been such a joy quietly stalking your blog for these last many months, and I look forward getting to know you even more now that our identities are revealed! 💕

Words: 12k

Read on AO3

The first time Rhysand saw Feyre, he thought she was the most beautiful woman he'd ever laid eyes on.

Only problem—so did every other man in the office. And they didn't exactly disguise their interest in the young, cute receptionist working on the fifth floor of their London skyrise.

After being propositioned by just about every single man in the office, including the ones who fell alarmingly outside her age range—a category which Rhys wasn't confident he was excluded from—he thought the last thing she needed on her first day was another colleague making a pass at her.

He offered a polite hello and welcome, but he intentionally waited until she survived her first week to strike up any further conversation. The chance opened for him when she walked into the break room at the precise moment he was filling up the kettle.

"Hey," he said, tipping the spout to gesture his hello. "Fancy a tea?"

"Oh." She glanced at the kettle, her bow-shaped lips popping open in what he could only assume was surprise. As if she'd walked into the break room expecting anything other than an electric kettle and a pod coffee machine. "I… didn't bring a mug."

"Well, Feyre, I'm not sure how they treated you at your last place, but here, corporate spoils us rotten with communal company branded mugs." Setting the kettle down on the base, Rhys flipped the overhead cabinet open, gesturing to its contents as if he'd unveiled a trove.

The dramatic flair earned him a polite laugh. It was cute, if a little forced. And he craved the chance to learn what her laugh sounded like when it wasn't given out of pity.

He gestured to the middle shelf, which deviated from the monotony of blue logo mugs. "If you do end up bringing a mug in, this is where you can keep it. Though I'll warn you, conversation gets stale here and that almost ensures you'll be asked for its backstory. I recommend bringing in something interesting, unless you want to end up like poor old Drakon."

"What happened to Drakon?"

Rhys gave a hearty sigh as he withdrew two mugs from the cupboard, shaking his head as he said, with the utmost solemnity, "He's known as the guy with a boring mug."

Her lips twitched. He thought that was a genuine smile she might have been fighting.

"If all I'm known for is having a boring mug, I think that's fine by me."

"Oh, believe me, you are far from the danger of that fate, Feyre darling—" the endearment slipped out before he could think better of it. He winced inwardly, trying to monitor her reaction in his periphery. Her brows lifted, and he continued on, hoping he could recover through the theatrics of setting the mugs in front of her, proclaiming proudly, "Because I'm gracious enough to let you use one of mine. Go on, take your pick."

The distraction paid off. Slip-up now forgotten, or so he hoped, Feyre leaned forward to read the print.

Then snorted. "This says Office Wanker."

He grinned. "That was my secret santa gift from last year."

Feyre lifted the other mug by its rather phallic shaped handle. The ceramic was dark green, with small white spikes pinched throughout to mimic a cactus. Feyre grinned as she read the white print on its side: Don't be a Prick.

"I'm sensing a theme."

"That was another gift." Rhys pitched his voice low. "Do you think they're trying to tell me something?"

"I think…" she bit her lip, her eyes gleaming with a mischief that told him she was purposefully building anticipation. "They might be mugging you off."

"That couldn't be it," he said, knowing his deadpan delivery was ruined. He could feel the stupid grin already plastered over his face and he couldn't help it. "My mother is adamant that I'm a delight. She says everyone likes me."

"I'm sure she's right," she whispered, with just the right amounts of sympathy and derision that Rhysand might have fallen in love with her right then and there.

He nodded to the two choices on the counter. "So which mug are you going with?"

"Oh—dear. Hmm. They're both such strong contenders." Feyre lifted the mugs, tilting and examining each with exaggerated scrutiny. Then she shoved the one with the phallic cactus towards him. "I think Prick fits you better. I'll go with Wanker."

"That's quite the statement to make in your second week," he said, eyes locking with hers as he accepted the mug, their fingers brushing just briefly enough to pass as accidental.

Pride warmed his chest when he noticed her cheeks turn the softest shade of pink. It was a similar shade to her lips, he thought. Which was a mistake, because he immediately needed to fight the temptation to stare at her mouth.

"Well," she said, withdrawing her hand, the movement a little stiff. A little uncertain. "At least I won't be known as a girl with a boring mug."

"That you most certainly will not," he purred.

The kettle clicked, steam billowing from its spout, and he was privately grateful for the excuse to pull his attention away lest he do—or more likely say—something stupid and inappropriate.

The entire office was flirting with her. If he escalated this beyond anything other than playful, inane small talk, she would think he was just another jerk trying his luck on the new girl. And really, isn't that exactly what he was?

Rhys lifted the kettle in offering. "So," he said. "Did you want tea?"

"Oh," she repeated. He would have teased her for it, this copy and paste exchange. Why did it keep surprising her that they were in the break room for tea? "No," she said finally, pointing toward the coffee machine. "I'm more of a coffee drinker."

"Ah," he said, pouring the water into his mug and tried to keep his cool as steam crowded his face. This whole time, he thought she was waiting for the kettle to boil. She could have been in and out of there in a minute if she just put the damn pod in.

But she lingered, watching him stir in sugar—which wasn't how he preferred his tea, but it offered an excuse for him to stay in the break room just a little longer.

"Do you—" he cleared his throat— "Do you know how to use the machine?"

"Yeah," Feyre said, waving the offer away. "I've got one like it at home."

"Ah, good."

He set his teaspoon in the sink, not in any rush to leave but faltering for a reason to stay.

If he could go back and do anything differently, Rhys would have chosen that moment to ask her out. Just for a coffee, to get to know each other. To explore what was already an obvious chemistry.

Instead he pinched the handle of his mug and nodded. "See you around then, Office Wanker."

Feyre waved. "Bye, Prick."

The bi-weekly sales team meeting was the bane of Rhysand's existence.

While he was being forced to sit and listen to Tamlin Spring stroke his own ego in front of the executives, Rhys knew his unattended inbox and phone line was being inundated with client inquiries that would prove a much better investment of his and the company's time.

Instead, he was trapped in an hour-long posturing session where each member of the team needed to prove to corporate that they were making enough money to justify their payslip. Something which Tamlin had been struggling with this month, though he was giving quite the performance about the value he had in the pipeline with his "nurturing prospects".

The door clicked open, and every head in the room swiveled towards the interruption.

Feyre stood there, one arm propping open the door, the other fidgeting with a sticky note. "Sorry to interrupt," she said with a wince. "I just have a note for Mr. Night. One of his clients is on line 6."

She waited until one of the executives gave her a nod of approval before scurrying to Rhys, her head ducked down. She didn't linger, pressing the sticky note into his hands, then disappearing as quickly as she'd come. He clenched his jaw when he noticed the trail of eyes that followed her.

Tamlin's gaze, in particular, dipped beneath her skirt-line, then back up. Twice. He shared a lazy grin to his left, not even trying to hide what he'd been doing. Worse, reveling in it.

"I should take this," Rhys said tightly, staring at the note in Feyre's hasty scrawl.

Office wanker,

Hope you're prepared to pay up.

"It's from my contact at Hybern," Rhys explained to the room. "I'm on the verge of closing this deal."

The executive gave Rhys a stiff nod of approval. Hybern had been a prospecting account for upwards of a year, until Rhys had taken over the lead two months ago. It was a big account, one he knew the execs were antsy to close.

Rhys had been waiting for Tamlin to finish fumbling his update to announce Hybern officially signed this morning. The choice had been purely strategic, an attempt to highlight the contrast between their performances after Tamlin tried to undermine him in the last meeting. And, admitedly, he'd been looking forward to the gratification of seeing Tamlin flounder in front of the execs he was trying so hard to brown-nose.

This was far more gratifying, though.

Rhys strolled out of the confrence room and returned to his seat, where he promptly picked up his desk phone and dialed line 6.

"Rhysand speaking."

"You thought I wouldn't do it," Feyre said in sing-song triumph. "You really thought I'd be too scared to do my job because of a bunch of serious old men in suits?"

Rhys blew out a stung breath. "Ouch, Feyre. Old?"

"Sorry, what was that? I can't hear you over your creaking bones."

"I didn't take you as a sore winner," he said, grinning.

"Doesn't matter what you took me as, because you know where you'll be taking me now? To lunch. And I'll be ordering something expensive."

He hoped she would. "Order whatever you want. A deal's a deal."

"Oh, I'm getting a side and a dessert."

"Better yet, why don't I take you to dinner? You can have the full course and drinks."

There was a pause on the other end of the line. One that prompted him to glance towards her reception desk, where he could see her pink lips part open. Her head swiveled towards him, brows merging to assess his meaning.

"Are you asking me on a date?"

"We're celebrating," he said, evading the question. "I closed the deal with Hybern, you won our wager. Let's get drinks."

"Okay," she said. Her smile was shy. "Let's go to dinner."

"Tonight?"

She hesitated. "I… have nothing to wear."

"Blimey, Feyre. I didn't realize you'd come to work nude. A bit bold, don't you think?"

"Shut up," she said, giving an exaggerated eye roll to be sure he could see it across the room.

It was, perhaps, with too much severity that he rushed to add, "You look perfect."

The admission hung a second too long. Rhys cleared his throat before she could mull over the gravity with which he said it—meant it.

"Anyway, we'll leave together after work, yeah? I know just the place."

Feyre bit her lip. It wasn't the immediate agreement he was hoping for, but the pink flush rising over her cheeks was an encouraging sign.

"Okay," she whispered. "I'll wait by the lift."

"Don't want them to see us leaving together?" He teased.

"Are you kidding?" She sounded horrified. "If they see us leave together, tomorrow there will be rumors that we're shagging."

"In rumor only?"

"See how well dinner goes first, Prick."

"That's not a no," he crooned, to which Feyre slammed the phone back onto the receiver.

He couldn't keep the dumb grin off his face, even once the sales team got out of their meetings and Tamlin plunked into the seat beside Rhys.

Tamlin scowled. "What are you so happy about?"

His voice was sour, even for Tamlin. Rhys figured the meeting must have gone south after he left. Ass kissing could only go so far when there's no money to be shown for it.

"I closed the deal with Hybern," Rhys said, deciding to capitalize on what was shaping up to be a superb day by rubbing it in Tamlin's face just a little bit. "Sending it through for approval right…" Click. "Now."

"Congrats," Tamlin muttered, mustering as minimal enthusiasm into the word as possible.

Rhys would have felt bad for the guy. When Tamlin first joined, Rhys had tried to take him under his wing, taking him on sales calls and feeding him solid leads that just needed a bit of nurturing. He'd thought they were something like friends until he'd caught Tam trying to poach his clients six months ago. When Rhys asked him to back off, Tamlin had gotten upper management involved, and things had gotten messy.

Since then, their relationship had regressed into this—Tamlin slumping back in his chair, frowning at his screen as Rhysand's closed deal started making the rounds in their sales channels.

The door to the CRO's office snicked open. "Hey, Rhysand. Can we talk?"

"Of course. I'll join you in a moment."

As Rhys slid out of his chair, he couldn't resist sneaking a glance towards Feyre. He was just doing his job at the end of the day, but he was good at it, and some juvenile part of his brain wanted her to notice.

Their eyes met. It always zapped through him, the sight of those bright eyes, like dragging his feet on carpet and touching something metal.

Feyre ducked her head, smiling shyly at her computer.

When he turned back, he saw Tamlin staring at him. Hard.

"What?" Rhys asked, straightening.

"The quirky little receptionist?" He snorted. "I didn't realize that was your type."

"I have no idea what you're talking about."

Tamlin shrugged. "I'm only trying to warn you. I hear she's fucked half this office."

Rhys slid his hands into his pockets, obscuring the fingers he curled into fists. He shouldn't let Tamlin rile him. He knew it was untrue, and even if it was, he wouldn't care. But Feyre would be upset if she knew that's what people were saying about her.

"Watch your mouth," Rhys said. "This is a workplace, not a locker room."

"Could've fooled me. I thought it was brothel when I first walked in."

Tamlin's head turned deliberately to Feyre, who's desk was positioned directly in front of the entrance. She was leaning over now, scribbling a note on her desk. At the angle, the cut of her top sloped low enough to show the tops of her breasts. The observation felt like stepping into Tamlin's mind, seeing Feyre the way he saw Feyre.

It was truly a shock to the system to feel repulsed by a sight of breasts—by Feyre's no less, which were magnificent in any other context. Rhys felted trapped between defending her, which would only validate Tamlin's suspicions and make her more of a target, or to let it slide and hope the bastard moved on.

"Each to their own, I suppose," Rhys said, brushing past Tamlin's desk. He slipped a hand out of his pocket to thrum his finger across the wood. "Hey—think they'll give me that promotion for the Hybern deal?"

The deflection worked. Like dangling car keys in front of a toddler, Tamlin's focus shifted back to the CRO's office.

He sneered. "Let me get back to work, Rhysand."

"Right. Right. That Adriata account, huh? Heard it's not going to well."

"Fuck off."

"So touchy," Rhys said, clicking his tongue. "I'm just trying to help. Maybe I'll give you some tips after my meeting."

Tamlin made a low grunt in the back of his throat, a sign that he was retreating into what Rhys and Feyre had dubbed 'beast mode'. Rhys actually preferred it when Tamlin was in beast mode. It meant kept his mouth shut and communicated through nods and grunts until his temper subsided—which, Rhys would argue, was much more effective communication than when his colleague attempted to use words.

It was a shame those sacred moments of Tamlin's silence would be wasted in the CRO's office. Rhys wasn't sure what to expect as he pushed the door open and poked his head inside.

"Come in," the CRO said, gesturing to the chair in front of his desk. "I heard you closed the deal with Hybern. Many congratulations—I know that was hard won."

"They made me work for it," Rhys acknowledged, lowering onto the alabaster seat. "But I knew we'd close them in the end."

The CRO nodded. "You did good work."

"Thank you," Rhys said, bracing himself for the pitch. He knew he wasn't called in here for a congrats.

"You're a strong salesman," the CRO continued. "You have excellent people skills, and you're good at getting clients on your side."

Rhysand's brows rose. He didn't think he'd ever heard this much praise come from upper management before. He was still waiting for the catch.

"The deal with Adriata has fallen through," the CRO went on. That was corporate speak for: Tamlin wet the bed.

"That's a shame," Rhys said mildly. It wasn't his deal, and he wasn't exactly heartbroken to hear Tamlin fumbled a big sale.

"I know you have a contact there—Tarquin. You used to work with each other at your previous role. Do you think you could leverage that to recover the sale?"

Rhys paused. Adriata was one of the leads he'd fed to Tamlin through that acquaintance. He could have taken the deal himself, but he thought the new guy could use an easy win. It shouldn't have taken this long—nearly a year—to close the deal and it certainly shouldn't have fallen through.

"Adriata is Tamlin's client," Rhys said slowly. "If I helped close the sale…"

"You'd get the commission," the CRO said, hearing the question that went unspoken. "And the account will be yours. I just want this closed before fiscal."

In other words, before Monday.

Rhys glanced at the digital clock on the CRO's desk, calculating the time difference in his head. "Tarquin's based in L.A. Latest I can get him on a call is five."

"If you stay late and get this done, you can take Monday off."

It wasn't Monday he cared about. It was the date he envisioned with the pretty blue-eyed receptionist. He thought he would finally have the chance to take her somewhere nice and give this chemistry between them a solid chance.

Rhys bit the inside of his cheek. Feyre would understand, wouldn't she? With the commission he'd get from Hybern and Adriata, he could take her somewhere even nicer. Hell, he could take her out of London. Fly to Paris for the weekend. Amsterdam. Art museums. Anywhere she wanted.

"Okay," Rhys said, nodding. "I'll see what I can do."

After that, he returned to his desk. Tamlin was still in beast mode, ignoring Rhysand's existence and probably nursing his ego about the ruined Adriata deal. It offered Rhys the privacy to slip a sticky note from his desk and pass it to reception on the way to the break room.

Have to stay late tonight. Rain check on dinner?

The following Monday, Rhys took the day off.

And later that morning, he was waiting to meet his family for breakfast when he received a call from the police.

His mother, father, and younger sister had all died in a car accident on their way to meet him.

Rhys took the rest of the week off.

It was the day of the funeral.

He was sitting on a bench, staring absently at a flock of ducks wading through The Serpentine at Hyde Park.

He'd just gotten back to London and couldn't bear the thought of going home. So he'd come here, though it was a miserable, foggy day and he could feel the cold burning his nose, cheeks, and ears.

In some ways, the cold felt grounding. This pain was real. Fixable. So much easier to process than the intangible grief he was drowning in.

"Here I thought I was the only person in London mad enough to be out on a day like this."

It was just his luck to run into Feyre on today of all days.

Rhys knew he looked a mess. He wasn't trying to hide it. And he knew it was inevitable she would see him in his grief. Their company only offered five days of bereavement, after all. He'd be back at work on Monday, and he didn't anticipate being any less of mess than he was now.

When she appeared before him, hands settled on her hips, he wondered if this was how it felt to see a mirage in the desert. To glimpse salvation and know it was impossible to reach.

In the dull grey backdrop of English winter, she was a smear of vibrant color. She was wearing a sky-blue overcoat, buttoned over a cream turtleneck and brown suede trousers. Her cheeks and nose were frostbitten, like his own, and it made him feel strangely envious of the cold.

"You look like you're freezing."

Unlike Feyre, bundled in her coat and scarf and mittens, he wasn't dressed for the weather. He was wearing a black suit and tie, and though he'd brought an overcoat with him to the funeral, he was fairly certain he'd left it at the wake.

"I'm fine," he said.

A blatant lie. Usually he was better at those.

"Here." Feyre began unwinding her red knit scarf.

"No." Rhys held up his hands to stop her. "Really, Feyre, I'm—"

Dodging his weak attempts to deter her, Feyre unraveled her scarf and wasted no time hooking it around Rhysand's neck. The scent of lilac and pear coiled around him, constricting like the vise of a serpent.

"Keep it," she said. "It didn't really match this outfit anyway."

"I'm not sure it matches mine," he said, glancing down at the shock of red against his black suit.

"I don't know." Feyre leaned back to admire his outfit with a level of interest that had Rhys reconsidering his whole wardrobe. "I think you look nice with a bit of color."

"It's warm," he granted, pressing his palm to the soft fabric. The heat of her body was still there, though leeching by the second. "Thank you for lending it to me."

"Keep it," she said, taking the seat next to him. "Like I said, it looks good on you."

He could see what she was doing. She even raised her brows, practically taunting him for a response. Something like Clothes tend to look better off me, or it looked better on you.

The mask was in reaching distance. He knew the script. He just didn't have the energy to don the part.

Feyre tried to keep the concern off her face. The only problem was, he'd spent the better part of a year trying to learn how to read her. He knew her tells, and if he didn't, he could still see the crease of concern forming between her brows.

"Where have you been?" She asked, trying to sound casual. "The rumors are crazy, you know. You close the two biggest sales of the year on the same day and then disappear for a week."

Rhys offered her his best imitation of a grin. "Is that your way of saying you were worried about me?"

"You know as a receptionist, it's part of my duty to know all the latest office gossip."

"No gossip here, Feyre." He shrugged. "Just taking some time off."

Feyre frowned. Her voice was soft and devastatingly gentle as she said, "Rhys. It looks like you just came from a funeral."

"Didn't know them that well."

It wasn't that he didn't want her to know. It was that Feyre was one of his last shreds of brightness and he wanted to keep her firmly compartmentalized from this grief.

If he told her, she would worry for him. Every exchange in the office would be weighted. Different. He couldn't stand the thought of her holding him like shattered glass, the way everyone else in his life was doing.

And, most of all, he couldn't stand the thought of burdening her.

"I'm sorry," she said, placing her hand on his shoulder. Her fingers dug into the fabric, as if trying to instill the depth of her conviction. "Even if you hardly knew them, I'm sorry if today was difficult for you."

"Difficult?" He said, the word strained. "No day where I get to see you is difficult, Feyre."

"Do you want to get a drink? You still owe me lunch, remember?"

Rhys pressed his hand over hers, squeezing tighter than he should. But in that moment, it felt like she was all he had to hold on to.

"Not today," he said. His eyes stung and he knew it wasn't from the cold. "Rain check?"

Feyre nodded. "Rain check."

Rhys went back to the office the following Monday.

Things returned to normal. Almost.

The equilibrium of his life had shifted, and normal looked a bit different. Less like living, and more like survival.

He didn't go up to the receptionist counter like he used to, armed with a hundred excuses just to talk to Feyre. He made his own copies. He scheduled his own appointments. He stopped playing mental games with Tamlin.

He just… stopped.

And everything else kept going.

That was the most overwhelming part. The constant, distinct sensation that he was being left behind because he didn't know how to keep up.

Feyre found new people to talk to in the office. Tamlin made different enemies. Corporate started taking an interest in other high performers. He felt like a shadow, an apparition haunting his own mundane life. And he only woke up once they were already burying him.

That was how it felt, anyway, when the news broke the office. Like handfuls of dirt tossed on top of his lifeless body.

Feyre and Tamlin are engaged.

He couldn't breathe. The weight was too much to claw through. Engaged? He didn't even know they'd been dating.

"I hear congratulations are in order," Rhys said to her in passing later that day.

"Oh." Feyre cheeks turned the same red as the scarf he kept in his bedside drawer. He supposed it was inappropriate to keep hold of it now. "Thank you."

"How long have you two been…?"

He was too much of a coward to even finish the question.

Feyre managed to fill in the rest, though. "About four months."

That was all? Christ, he could have been married to her four times over by now. If he'd been brave enough to ask her out on that first day.

But he sensed the way she braced herself for his response, and guessed people hadn't been holding back commentary about their hastiness to get down the aisle.

"Sometimes when you know, you know," Rhys said, reserving his own less-than-complimentary thoughts.

He could think of only one reason Tamlin was in such a rush, and the suspicion was too ego-centric to lend any merit to.

Feyre was a treasure. Anyone with eyes could see that. Even Tamlin.

When Feyre gave him one of her forced smiles, he felt it like another clump of dirt landing on his chest. There were many ways he'd describe his relationship with Feyre, but something it had never been was forced.

He'd hurt her, he realized. When he withdrew into his grief without explaining himself. He should have told her what was going on.

And now he'd lost her.

Rhys thrummed his fingers on the countertop. "Well, I should let you go back to work."

Feyre's solemn nod was the eulogy that finally sent him sputtering, wondering what on earth he was doing buried in this hole.

Tamlin was obnoxious, sure, but at least he was alive.

Maybe it was time to move on. Not just from his grief, but from Feyre, too. He couldn't even remember the last time he'd tried going on a date.

Not since she first started here.

With a heavy sigh, Rhys pulled out his phone and sent a quick text to his cousin.

Rhys: Drinks tonight? x

Mor: I already made plans with a friend. Unless you want to join us??? 👀 xxx

Rhys considered. He snuck a glance at Feyre, catching her in the act of tucking her unruly hair behind her ear.

The sight of her struck him like a punch in the gut.

Rhys: Is she single? x

Mor: I thought you'd never ask 😌 x

It was his first night out in… god knew how long.

He hadn't left his house much in the last few months, and truthfully it had felt good to fall back into the routine of caring about his appearance. Taking a shower, shaving, picking a nice cologne, styling his hair so it wasn't just a sad mop of curls.

He felt… good wasn't quite the right word. He wasn't there yet. But his head felt clearer, and the air felt crisp, and he didn't feel like he was on the verge of suffocating in his own dread.

It was progress.

"Rhys!"

He barely had time to turn before his cousin vaulted into his chest, knocking him back a few steps from the sheer force of her hug.

"You look good!" Mor pulled back, her eyes brighter than the last time they'd met. He could see her relief in them. "Really."

"You do, too."

"You have no idea how many times I nearly sent Az and Cass on a kidnapping mission." She slapped his shoulder lightly in admonishment. "We've been worried sick!"

"I've just been busy," he said, knowing it was a lame excuse but lacking any other armor. "I'm sorry."

Mor sniffed. "You'll only be forgiven if you buy me and my friend a drink."

Rhys scanned the crowd. "Is she here?"

"Yeah. She just went to the bathroom. Asked me to order her a G&T."

"Coming up," Rhys said. "Go find us some seats."

"I haven't told you what I want," Mor pointed out.

"House red. Biggest glass they have."

She grinned, reaching out to ruffle his hair. "I missed you—"

"No touching the hair," he said, batting her hand away. "Seats. Now."

"Okay, bossy."

Rhys rolled his eyes, but there was a smile twitching the corner of his lips. It was nice. The normalcy of bickering with Mor.

It was a busy night, despite being a weekday, so it took a while for the bar to make their drinks. Longer still, for Rhys to take up the precarious task of balancing all three drinks in his hands as he searched for the table.

He caught a flash blonde hair poking over the seat of a leather booth and grinned. There was another girl sitting beside Mor, a brunette, both of their backs turned as he rounded the corner.

And nearly dropped the glasses on the floor.

Bright blue eyes stared at him, wide and achingly familiar. Her mouth parted open into a gasp.

"Rhys?"

He was equally dumbfounded. "Feyre?"

Mor said her friend was single. It shouldn't have been the first thought to bubble up through his shock. But it was.

"How do you two know each other?" Mor said, the question nearly accusational.

"We work together," Rhys said, recovering enough to set the drinks on the table.

Mor's eyes widened. "Oh my god," she said, whipping her head to gape at Feyre, who was dropping her head into her hands. "Oh my god, Feyre!"

"Is something the matter?" Rhys asked, unable to pry his eyes away from the red stain burning along the dainty curve of Feyre's ears. She kept her hands over the rest of her face, but he could see peeks of blushing skin through the gaps in her fingers. How was it possible that she was the one mortified about this?

He could see the mischief spreading over Mor's face, and it made him nervous. "Oh," his cousin said, drawing out the vowel as she plucked her wine glass from the table. "It's just that Feyre darling here has told me all about the people she works with in her office. Neglected to mention names, of course, but I'm starting to put two and two together."

Feyre darling. Smug satisfactions coursed through him at the realization that Feyre had been telling Mor about him. Not Tamlin—or at least, not exclusively Tamlin.

Feyre retreated from her hands just enough to glower at Mor. She wasn't meeting Rhysand's eyes, which likely had something to do with her scarlet coloring. He'd made her blush before, but never like this—never the kind that spread over her throat and collarbones, too. For a distracted second, he let himself imagine dragging his lips across every inch of red skin, just to see how long he could make the color linger.

"Let me guess," Rhys said, knowing he should keep the purr from his voice—she was engaged, for Christ's sake—but his eyes never lifted from her face. "She told you about a devilishly handsome salesman who sits at the desk across from her?"

"Hmm." Mor feigned an expression of deep thought. "That doesn't ring any bells, no. Though I'm pretty certain she mentioned something about a giant prick?"

Feyre's lips twitched, the making's of a smile.

Until Rhys interjected, "I suppose I do wear tight pants."

"You're disgusting," Mor said, wrinkling her nose. Feyre made a sound like she was inclined to agree.

And it was starting to drive him crazy that she wasn't saying anything. Was still refusing to look at him.

He tried to tempt her gaze by dragging her gin and tonic across the table, pushing it towards her as he asked, "What else have you been telling my cousin about me, Feyre darling?"

Finally. Finally she looked at him. Those blue eyes were more wary than he was used to seeing, but still full of challenge. More so, as they narrowed.

"I didn't know you two are cousins," she said, artfully evading the subject.

"Would have kept the finer details to yourself, if you'd known?"

Feyre lifted her chin. "It's not nice to speak ill of someone's family."

"Oh, I'm sure your descriptions were scathing." He smirked. "Do you have a code name for me?"

"Yeah, Prick."

"I know you're more imaginative than that, Feyre. You probably gave her a physical description, too, hmm? Tall, dreamy eyes, dark-haired—"

"Swaggering, insufferable arrogance," Feyre filled in.

Mor shook her head in disbelief. "I should have known it was Rhys from that alone."

"You wound me," Rhys said, clutching his chest. "Both of you."

His cousin rolled her eyes. "I think you'll manage to recover." She turned to Feyre and tapped her half full glass. "Where's the bathroom? There's a cute brunette at the bar and I need to make sure my lipstick hasn't smeared."

Feyre studied Mor's makeup. "You're fine."

"Liar. You just don't want me to leave you alone with Rhys." She slid out of the booth, her white teeth on full display. "I think you two can play nice for five minutes."

"Your judgment is questionable as always, Mor," Rhys said, though it did nothing to deter his cousin from gathering her purse and striding towards the restrooms.

Leaving him alone with Feyre.

He reminded himself to take deep, steady breaths—a task which escalated in difficulty once he noticed the scent of her perfume. Lilac and pear, the same she was wearing the day of his family's funeral. The same scent which had long since faded from the scarf she'd wrapped around his neck.

"For what it's worth, I'm sorry for crashing your girl's night."

Feyre shook her head. "Don't be sorry. I knew you were coming. I just… didn't know you were coming."

"And that makes it worse?" He said, ignoring the pang in his chest that she would prefer a stranger's company to his own.

"It makes it… complicated."

"Complicated?" Rhys raised his brows. "Like how Mor asked me to come here to meet her single friend kind of complicated?"

Feyre sat up straighter. "Mor said what?"

Rhys winced. He hadn't meant to throw Mor under the bus. "Just for my own clarity, you are engaged to Tamlin, right?"

"That's also…. complicated."

"Complicated how, Feyre?"

She chewed on her lower lip. A habit he'd noticed at the office, and had sent him walking stiffly to the men's room more times than he'd care to admit.

"Tamlin asked me to marry him last night," Feyre said, her voice so soft that he needed to lean over the table to hear her over the loud atmosphere. "I didn't say yes. I didn't say no, either. I just… I wanted more time to think about it, I guess. But he announced it to everyone in the office today."

Rhysand's grip tightened around his whiskey glass. "That bastard."

"I don't know what to do about it," Feyre said, all in one exhale. Her shoulder slumped. "I feel trapped. If I back out now, it will be this whole big thing. We'll have to walk it back in front of the entire office and it will be so uncomfortable."

The last thing Feyre needed was a big reaction. He could see it in the way she braced herself across from him, holding her body taut as if she was a passenger in some unbridled vehicle, expecting to crash at any moment.

He managed to keep his voice calm as he said, "This isn't the kind of decision that you should feel pressured into. You should marry someone because you want to, not because you feel obligated."

Feyre shrugged. The gesture was resigned, like he wasn't saying anything she hadn't already said to herself.

"I don't know what I want," she admitted.

"Then I think that's your answer. If it's not a resounding, unwavering yes, then you shouldn't do it."

"Will it ever be like that, though?" Her voice was strained. "Do people ever actually fall in love and know that they want to be with that person forever? Without any question?"

Rhys needed to take a deep swallow of his whiskey before he could answer. "Yes," he said, feeling it burn down his throat—the admission and the alcohol and the words he just couldn't bring himself to say. "If it's the right person, you know. Without any question."

Her eyes bored into his, so deep he swore she could see straight to the quick of his soul, where he was still raw and healing and afraid to tell her what he should be telling her.

Don't marry him.

I love you.

Please, don't marry him.

He didn't know what he would do—he didn't know if he would survive—if he unmasked himself completely, revealing every gnarled, jagged edge of jealousy and love and fear, and she still walked away.

"You came here wanting to meet one of Mor's single friends?" Feyre's voice trembled a bit, as if she was also holding back too much, waning beneath the weight. "Like, to be set up on a date?"

"Yeah," he said, shame drying the roof of his mouth. It felt like a betrayal, though he couldn't explain why or how. "It's been a while since I've put myself out there."

Feyre looked down at her drink. "Sorry you got me instead."

If there was one thing Rhys couldn't stand, it was hearing Feyre apologize for something outside of her control. She was always doing that in the office—apologizing for delays due to broken printers and out-of-order lifts.

"I owed you a drink though, didn't I?" He forced himself to wink. To grin. To play the smug arrogance he knew she expected from him. "This is a much better twist of fate."

Feyre opened her mouth, as if she was about to say something else, when Mor saddled back into the booth, lipstick freshly re-applied. "So," she said, tossing a lock of curls over her shoulder. "What did I miss?"

Feyre did, eventually, call off her engagement with Tamlin.

It happened months after Mor's failed setup attempt. Months of listening to Feyre go back and forth with Tamlin in the office about wedding plans, holding his tongue while she was strong-armed through every decision. Months of watching her steadily grow thinner, quieter, duller.

Months of watching Feyre Archeron wilt before his very eyes.

He didn't know what the catalyst was, in the end. All he knew was that one day, he walked into the office armed with a stupid joke to try to make her smile, since she was doing less and less of it these days. And instead he'd met the stern face of their new receptionist, Alis.

So when Mor told him that she'd invited Feyre on their annual trip to their family cabin in the Alps, he'd had conflicting feelings.

One hand, he'd get to spend a week of uninterrupted time with Feyre, where they could deviate from their usual script of jammed printers and pleasant weather. And more importantly, he could finally, finally, enjoy her company without the threat of her impending engagement looming over their shoulders.

On the other hand, what was the appropriate buffer to give the love of your life time to grieve her relationship with the worst man you've ever met? Mor had told him, very sternly he would add, that all topic surrounding Tamlin were strictly off limits.

Did that include topics concerning the absence of Tamlin, and if or when she'd be ready for someone to fill that void?

He ached to tell her how he felt. Now that the Tamlin-shaped dam was finally removed, he was drowning from the weight of holding back years of confessions and unrequited feelings.

Their burden became impossible to carry the closer the trip became, to the point where he considered bailing simply out of fear that he wouldn't be able to control himself. Feyre deserved better than that. After all this time, they both did.

But his fears were unfounded when she walked through the door.

Rhys had long associated Feyre's presence with joy. Even during those agonizing months he'd loved her and believed she would be marrying another man. The sight of her walking into a room still filled him with joy.

Now, he was flooded with distress.

She was thin. He noticed she'd been losing weight in the months leading up to her resignation. But this was drastic.

Feyre looked as if her dread and grief were eating her alive.

He wanted to weep at the sight of what Tamlin had done to her. Weep, then take Cass and Az and three of their best baseball bats and—

"Feyre darling," he greeted, lifting from the sofa with a broad smile. "Look at you, out of work clothes."

"I'm surprised you recognize me in something other than a blouse."

"Well, I wasn't certain at first," he intoned, strolling closer to the doorway. Until he could see the snowflakes on her long eyelashes and every adorable freckle smattered over her nose and cheeks. "But that smear of paint always gives you away."

Feyre turned her head to Mor, her eyes widening as if to confirm, Do I really have paint on my face?

"Oh, ignore him," Mor grumbled. But she did lick her thumb and lean in to rub Feyre's cheekbone, which resulted in sputtered protest that his cousin happily ignored.

Rhys watched Feyre thrash against Mor's hold, a familiar fondness stirring in his chest. "It is nice to see you again, Feyre. I've missed you at the office."

"Why?" She snorted. "Because I was the only sane person there?"

"Precisely for that reason."

He opened his arms to her, and he was relieved that she didn't hesitate for a second to throw her arms around him. Rhys held her tight, trying and failing not to marvel at how fragile she felt. Some delicate, breakable thing.

What happened to the girl who proudly drank from an office wanker mug on her second week? Rhys knew she was still there, hidden behind layers of guilt and sorrow and what he suspected was the subconscious voice of a man who'd tried everything in his power to whittle her down.

"How is… everyone?" She asked, her diction stilted just enough that he knew who she was truly asking after.

He shot a help me glance to Mor, who immediately jumped in and admonished, "You both promised me no office talk!"

Rhys held up his hands. "Okay, okay. How about wine talk?"

"Why dear cousin of mine, how did you know that's my favorite topic?"

"Lucky guess," he said flatly.

He recognized Feyre's laugh. That hollow, polite sound that she used during her first week in the office, when she felt obligated to laugh at every bland, unfunny joke. Including his own.

It was enough that she was laughing—that she was trying to laugh again. And he resolved that if he could do one thing for her on this trip, it would be getting her to laugh. A genuine, shoulder-shaking, clutching-her-stomach-because-she-can't-breathe laugh.

Rhys turned his gaze to her, failing not to notice the dark circles under her eyes. "What about you, darling? Are you drinking wine these days?"

She grinned, though it didn't quite meet her eyes. "I'm drinking anything these days."

That seemed like too much to unpack when she was still standing in the entryway, the open door blowing a gust of cold air at her back.

It was instinct, the way he reached for her scarf to unravel her in the direction of the overstuffed armchair. If he was overstepping, Feyre didn't seem to mind. Her laughter was more breath than anything, but she indulged him by twirling on her toes, helping him to unwrap the rest of the scarf as if it were a choreographed dance. Though, with the way her balance wobbled at the end, Rhys didn't suspect they'd be competing on any dance shows in the near future.

"Careful," he said, bracing her elbow. "The nearest hospital is an hour away and in the next thirty minutes, none of us will be sober enough to drive you."

"You could always bundle me up on a sled," Feyre mused. He let go once she regained her balance and tried not to look disappointed when she retreated from his touch to curl up on the arm chair. "At least if I didn't reach the bottom, I'd be going out in style."

"Sledding!" Mor squealed, clapping her hands together. "Oh, yes, we should absolutely do that this year!"

Rhys shot his cousin an incredulous look. "If I recall correctly, our last emergency hospital visit was the result of sledding."

Mor poked her tongue at him. "Whatever. Cass probably thought it was as worth it for the photos alone."

Rhys explained to Feyre, "Last year, Cass face-planted a rock. Fucked up both his front teeth."

"He was so drunk he didn't even notice until he saw the blood," Mor added, rolling her eyes. "Az took a picture and Cassian made it his screensaver for like six months."

Feyre shuddered. "I think I'll pass on the sledding."

If he was honest, Rhys hoped she stayed exactly where she was for the rest of the trip. Safe, in that oversized chair, in front of the crackling fire, where he could already see some color returning to her expression.

His eyes swiveled to the basket of blankets tucked beneath the coffee table. He knew if he grabbed one for her, he'd be accused of coddling. And maybe he was.

Even so, he couldn't help praising, "Wise decision."

"Lame decision," said a deep voice, striding out of the bathroom with a towel wrapped far too precariously around his hips.

The cabin had four bedrooms, two on each side of the hall, with only one bathroom nestled in the center. No one was exactly thrilled to be sharing a single bathroom between five adults, though Cassian argued half the fun was trying to catch a glimpse of Azriel naked.

"Cassian I presume?" Feyre said from the armchair.

Cass grinned, striding forward on wet, slapping feet. The only thing that dissuaded him from dripping onto the carpet to go shake Feyre's hand—or offer some other, far less appropriate greeting—was Rhysand's sharp glare

"And you must be the renown Feyre Archeron." He slid Rhys a knowing grin that was begging for a punch. "I'll go get dry before the hall monitor gives me a detention for getting his precious carpet wet. But then, you and I have much to talk about."

Rhys couldn't give two shits about the carpet, though it was his parents' and it was cashmere. But he would prefer if Cassian could avoid flashing Feyre when she was only a few weeks post-break-up.

He needed things to go well so that Feyre would consider coming back next year. And the year after. And however many holidays it would take for her to consider that she might like to be part of this group.

And if that was all she ever wanted, that would be good enough. As long as she was happy again.

"Should I be scared?" Feyre asked.

"Of Cassian?" Mor laughed. "No more than you would be afraid of a big, slobbery puppy."

"It's Az people usually find scary," Rhys said, wandering in the kitchen to fetch the girls their wine. "But that's just 'cause he's quiet. Truth is, he's a big softie."

"More like he's got a big softie," Mor muttered.

Rhys straightened. "Pardon?"

"Are we talking about Az's dick?" Cassian called, scrambling back into the room. "Without me?"

The front door shut, diverting everyone's attention to where Azriel stood, a gloved hand still pressing the handle. He blinked at them, sighed, and then walked back out the front door.

"Wait, Az!" Cassian called, cackling as he vaulted over the sofa to get to the front door faster, narrowly recovering from flashing them by fisting the towel at his groin. He managed to catch the door before it closed, sprinting outside with his feet and chest still bare.

"Are they…" Feyre hesitated. "Together?"

It was a terrible time to have handed Mor her wine glass. She sputtered, choking on a mixture of wine and laughter that erupted over her clothes, the sofa, and the coffee table.

Feyre leapt to her feet to help. "Oh my god, are you okay?" She thumped a fist behind Mor's back as his cousin's laughter fizzled into a coughing fit.

Rhys, meanwhile, set Feyre's wine glass on a clean corner of the coffee table and returned to the kitchen to grab some paper towels.

"I'm sorry for—all of them, really," he called to her.

Mor, still wheezing, could only lift her middle finger broadly on his direction.

"To answer your question," Rhys said, coming back to Mor's side to divide layers of paper towel among the three of them. "No, Cassian and Azriel are not dating."

His cousin shrieked at the reminder, launching into another coughing fit.

"Thanks," Feyre said, balling up her collection of towels to dab them gingerly into the carpet. Red wine. His parents were rolling in their graves. "I, uh, think I put that one together."

"Cass just likes to push buttons. And Azriel's the most private among us, which leads to a lot of speculation," he sent Mor a pointed look, "among our group."

Mor, having mostly recovered from her fit, tapped her chest and croaked, "It's the greatest tragedy of Cassian's life that he'll never know if his dick is bigger than Az's."

"We spend every year naked together in a sauna," Rhys reminded her, raising his brows as if to say, what are you up to? Mor didn't usually indulge conversations about naked men to this degree. "Believe me, he knows."

"And?"

Rhys jerked his head, just to be sure he'd heard the question right. Feyre was looking at him with a glint in her eye. She was biting her lip, restraining a laugh just like she'd done on the first day they'd spoken to each other in the break room.

A habit she'd never broken, after all these years.

His lips twitched. "And, what, Feyre darling?"

"What's the outcome of this annual dick measuring contest you three apparently have in the sauna?"

"Why don't you join us this year and find out?"

"Am I allowed to bring my strap?" Mor asked.

The front door shut, revealing cold-flushed yet grinning Cassian and a bewildered looking Azriel.

"I don't know what conversation we just walked in on," Cassian said, "but count me in."

This was a nightmare. At least, Rhys thought it was a nightmare. Feyre, strangely, seemed to be enjoying herself and he thanked the gods that she had a good sense of humor about all this chaos.

"You must be Azriel," Feyre said, beaming at the dark haired male becoming a shadow at Cassian's back. "I've heard so much about you."

Azriel glanced toward the door. Rhys knew he was debating the merits of trying to make another escape. He'd probably already started his car by the time Cassian caught up and dragged his ass back.

"All good things," Feyre assured quickly.

Rhys didn't think he'd ever seen Azriel blush before.

"What happened here?" Cassian said with a low whistle, taking in the mess of wine-soaked paper towels. "It's too early in the evening for you to have forgotten where your mouth is, Morrigan."

"Har har." Mor stood up from the sofa. "Just for that, I'm stealing one of your hoodies."

"Didn't you bring your own clothes?" He complained.

"It wouldn't be a punishment if I wore my own."

"I only brought like two hoodies!"

"You should have thought about that before you opened your big, dumb mouth."

"At least steal one of Az's. He smells better than me."

"If you think so, maybe you should wear one of his hoodies."

"Mor—" Cassian groaned as she strode off into his room. "Mor!"

"I should have warned you they were going to bicker like this," Rhys said apologetically, perching himself against the armrest of Feyre's chair to, at last, hand her a wine glass.

"Oh trust me, bickering over sharing clothes is a staple of sisterhood. I'm used to it."

"That's right, you have two sisters don't you? Nesta and Elain." She looked surprised he remembered. "How are they doing?"

"Well. Nesta is this scary, big shot lawyer who eats suited men for breakfast and Elain is living the dream cottage core life with her husband, Lucien. You remember him, right? He was Tam's—" she winced. Like that name was a bruise she didn't mean to press.

"I remember him," Rhys said, trying to help her past the slip-up. "Redhead, right? Snarky?"

She snorted. "You could say that again."

"Does he treat her right?"

"Oh, like a princess." She rolled her eyes. "You wouldn't believe the way she has him wrapped around her little finger."

"I believe it," Rhy said. He wondered if he had that stupid grin on his face again, the one that proved just how wound he was around Feyre's little finger.

Feyre didn't seem to know how to respond to that, but she shrugged and said, "They're happy."

Rhys didn't doubt for a second Feyre was happy for her sister, but he could see the discomfort on her face at that admission. It couldn't have been easy to have a brother-in-law who was close to her ex fiancé. And he knew first hand how difficult it was to see someone else happy and have that reality feel so distant it was foreign.

"I'm glad," he said. "And I'm glad you could join us this year. It will be a relief to have someone sane in our entourage."

"I don't think that's fair to Azriel," Feyre said. "So far, he's been the most well behaved."

Az smiled. "The night is still young."

Rhys chuckled at Feyre's look of betrayal. "Like I said, darling. You're the most sane person here."

"Maybe that's what I'd like you to think."

He liked seeing something other than resignation in her eyes again. So much that he couldn't resist leaning forward, his voice ripe with challenge as he purred, "Then I look forward to being proved otherwise."

Despite his best efforts, Rhys couldn't convince Mor that it was a bad idea to take everyone sledding the next morning.

They were all nursing hangovers from a concoction of liquors that they'd made the mistake of letting Cassian combine into what he called 'Solstice Punch'. Rhysand had a blistering headache, which wasn't helped by Cassian's noisy attempt to make breakfast. With only four rooms, Rhys had drawn the short straw for who had to sleep on the couch.

Rhys groaned, burying his head beneath a pillow. "There is no way in hell that you're getting me onto a sled today."

"Even if you get to share one with Feyre?" Cassian teased. "You'll get to wrap your arms around her and—"

"Shut up."

"I guess Az and I will just get to enjoy her company instead," Cassian said smugly.

It nearly convinced Rhys to go, until Mor strode into the living room. "Feyre isn't coming," she announced. "She's not feeling good."

Rhys sat up way too fast. "Is she okay?" He asked, blinking away the black spots that burst in his vision.

"Calm down, white knight. She's just hungover like the rest of us." Mor looked at Cassian, frowning. "Maybe we should take it easy today."

"Fuck that. Az is already loading the car. You coming?"

Mor sighed. "I can't leave Feyre."

"Sure you can," Cassian said, grinning over her shoulder at Rhys. "Lover boy will take perfect care of her."

Rhys slumped back into the sofa, ignoring the jab. "You go, Mor. We'll take it easy today."

Mor pressed her lips together, consternation pulling at her brows as she flicked her eyes between Rhys and Cassian. "Fine," she said with a sigh. "I'll go. Someone needs to babysit the idiots. You sure you'll be okay, Rhys?"

"Peachy," he grumbled, squeezing his eyes shut. "Now get the hell out of here so I can go back to sleep."

Rhys couldn't say how much longer he slept for. When he woke up, the cabin was silent. Someone had graciously left the curtains drawn, keeping the living room subdued in darkness and by the same virtue, making it impossible to guess how late in the day it was.

The heating had kicked on at some point, leaving him sweating beneath the pile of blankets. He kicked them off and shuffled into the hall.

"Feyre?" He called, stopping to listen outside her door. When there was no answer, he assumed she must still be asleep.

Rhys pushed into the bathroom, intent on washing off his sweat even if the bright fluroscents felt like a thousand needles shoved into his eye sockets. He groaned, fumbling half-blind as he jerked the shower curtain open and turned on the water.

It was only once he was under the water, steam billowing around him, that he felt his head begin to clear. And that was when he realized he left his clothes in the living room.

Rhys fell forward with a groan, resting his head against the damp tile as he debated the merits of retrieving his clothes now or waiting until he finished his shower. There was no telling if Feyre would still be asleep by the time he finished. At least if he left now, he could evade a potentially awkward encounter.

It took all of his willpower to step out of the warm embrace of water. More, to grab a towel and wrap it around his waist.

He opened the door gradually, peering through the crack to ensure the coast was clear before he hurried with wet, slapping footprints to where his bag rested beside the sofa.

As he crouched to unzip the top, he heard the unmistakable sound of the front door handle turning. He froze.

The door pushed open. He knew he was doomed because whoever stepped through was far too silent to be a member of his family.

Rhys hovered in place, clutching his towel tight around the hips, internally debating whether it was better to let her know he was there or try to flee behind the kitchen counter before she realized.

"Rhys?" Feyre called.

Shit. It was fine, right? She'd seen Cassian in a towel yesterday and hardly reacted.

Slowly, he rose from behind the couch, prepared to play this off with a flirty comment. But as soon as he saw her, his brain deserted every word of the linguistic tongue.

"Oh!" She jumped, faltering to quickly re-secure the towel she had wrapped around her torso.

Rhys decided a Christmas deity must be trying to punish him. There was no other explanation for the ridiculous towel she was wearing, so short her breasts spilled over the top and if she bent, even the slightest, he would be able to see her entire ass.

Where on Earth had she found a towel like that?

Rhys needed to finish mentally reeling his tongue back in before he was able to shape coherent words. And once he did, they came out entirely too rough, like he was scraping them over sandpaper.

"Well, one of us is going to have to change."

A familiar blush was spreading over her chest, but Feyre did a good job keep in her expression composed as she quirked a brow. "I think that depends on who wore it better."

"I won't make any argument on that front," Rhys said. It was taking every ounce of restraint not to drink her in like this. "I'm just grabbing some clothes and I'll head into the shower."

"Or—"

How could such a soft, breathy word strike with enough momentum to take him off his feet? Rhys clenched his hand tighter around the handle of his bag, trying to will his blood flow back into his head.

"You could come join me?"

Fuck. Fuck. He'd never heard Feyre use the voice before—at least anywhere outside of his own fantasies. It was just rough enough to scrape him raw, wondering if he'd imagined the sultry undertone or if he was letting his own ego get to his head.

"Join you where, exactly, darling?"

"The sauna," she said. "I've just warmed it up, and seeing as you're already dressed for the occasion…"

This was how it must have felt to be ensnared by a siren. To see your every desire brought to life, just in reaching distance, and to know it would be your undoing.

There wasn't any scenario where he could go into a sauna with Feyre, alone, and keep hold of the careful distance he was putting between them. He couldn't think of a single outcome that wouldn't end with Feyre in his lap, panting beneath his touch. And he wanted it. So badly he would crash his ship to shore and gladly drown in the wreckage.

But he wanted her to be ready, too. He didn't want to be another man pressuring her into say yes, making her feel trapped. If he was going to kiss her, touch her, do anything more than flirt with her, he needed to do it in a neutral space, where she could leave if it became too much.

Rhys was careful not to let the pain show on in his face. He released his breath through his nose, quiet, measured.

"I think we should wait until we're better hydrated," he said. "I wouldn't want you passing out. Rain check?"

Feyre's smiled dropped. Rhys was starting to feel nauseous again, and it had nothing to do with the alcohol sitting heavy in his stomach.

"Oh." Feyre said. He could hear her disappointment. "Okay. Maybe later, then."

Rhys held himself still as she hurried past, fleeing into her room. His chest pinched at the sound of the door snicking shut, as if a piece of his heart was caught in the doorjamb, begging for it to open.

With a sigh, he gathered his clothes and went back to his shower.

Feyre

Azriel, Cassian, and Mor had returned at some point in the late afternoon with a few nicks and bruises, but no broken teeth. Feyre was assured that meant it was a successful sledding trip. Which was more than she could say about her lazy day at the cabin.

She'd spent most of it in her room, with the exception of her brief attempt to coax Rhys into the sauna. After his mortifyingly polite rejection, she'd spent the rest of the day in her room until Mor came knocking.

"You okay?" She asked, finding Feyre buried beneath a pile of blankets.

This was ordinarily Rhysand's room. Which meant that everything in here smelled like him. Citrus and a dark, churning sea, threatening to swallow her whole beneath warm, chunky-knit blankets.

"Doesyercznlkmm?"

"What?" Mor stepped further into the room, shutting the door behind her.

Feyre pulled her head out from beneath the blankets. "Does your cousin like me?"

"Rhys?" Mor frowned. "Of course he likes you."

"No, that's not what I mean. You know how I feel about him, Mor. Sometimes I think he feels the same way, but then he just pulls away from me."

Mor glanced towards the door, her expression wary. She always grew a little evasive whenever their conversation skewed towards Rhys, and Feyre felt a little guilty for putting her in the middle.

"My cousin can be pretty guarded," Mor said. "He keeps his cards close to his chest, especially after his family died. But… Look in that box, under the bed."

Feyre's eyes followed Mor's gesture to the small gap under Rhysand's bed. Curious, Feyre extracted herself from the bed to fish out a small shoebox. She pushed the lid open, frowning when she saw a red scarf carefully folded inside.

"He took that here last year. Wore it everywhere. It was the first Christmas since his family died and I think it brought him a lot of comfort." Mor shrugged. "He wouldn't say where it was from but I have my suspicions."

Feyre ran her fingers over the soft wool, recalling the anguish on his face when she'd given it to him. She'd always half-heartedly wondered what happened to the scarf, but she'd assumed he'd thrown it out or otherwise forgotten about it.

Mor said, "If you want to know how he feels, you should just ask him. But I think you mean a lot to him, Feyre. Maybe he's just waiting for you to tell him how you feel."

Easier said than done. The last two years was a montage of chances where she could have told Rhys how she felt and didn't. It was always never the right time. He was working late or she was rushing out the door or he was grieving or she was dating Tamlin—or it was just safer to stay in this soft, liminal space between friendship and something more.

Walking away from Tamlin had been easy. Complicated, yes, but emotionally… All she'd felt was relief.

If it's the right person, you know. Without any question.

"Right," Feyre breathed, nodding to herself. "Tell him how I feel. That should be…" Nerve wracking. "I can do that."

Rhys

When Rhys felt something soft wrapping around his neck, his first suspicion was that Az and Cass were pulling a prank on him. It wasn't uncommon to wake up from a drunken stupor in this cabin with a marker mustache and a few drawn-on dicks.

He was convinced when he felt the weight of a body settle over him.

"C'mon Cass," he mumbled. "Not now."

The body above him giggled. Light. Feminine.

"Does that imply Cass usually climbs into bed with you?"

Rhys opened his eyes to find Feyre's face hovering inches over his, her hair cascading around his head like a canopy. Her hands were at his chest, tugging a red scarf around his neck.

"What's going on?" He asked, not convinced he was awake. He didn't even remember going to bed, but the lights were off, so it had to be late. "What time is it?"

"You never gave my scarf back," she said, as if that was a perfectly reasonable answer to his question. "But you kept it all this time."

She was straddling his lap, her ass settled just above his groin. If he moved even the slightest bit, he would grind against her, and he couldn't deny the temptation crossed his mind.

"Are you drunk?" He asked. Which, as he thought about it, was a stupid question. They'd all been drinking—Feyre more than anyone. He had a vague memory of half guiding, half stumbling with her into his bedroom.

Which, as he sat up, was where he realized they still were. Not on the sofa. Christ, he must have crashed trying to get her to bed.

"Not any more than you," she argued. "At least I managed to stay awake. Pussy."

He laughed. "Did you really just call me a pussy?"

"Do you prefer it to Prick?"

"Not really. Though I'll admit, I am fascinated to learn what other filthy words you'd like to call me."

Feyre tugged at the scarf, drawing his face closer to hers. He could feel her breath against his lips as she whispered, "You'll have to earn them."

He fought a shiver at the invitation in her voice. "How?"

"Kiss me," she said, eyes fixing on his mouth.

He wanted to. More than he wanted to breathe. "We're drunk, Feyre."

Her eyes lifted to his. "Pussy," she said again, before grabbing both ends of the scarf and yanking it upwards, crashing her mouth to his.

Rhys shut his eyes, a guttural sound forming in the back of his throat as he slipped his arms around her back, pulling her tighter. It wasn't the kind of first kiss he'd imagined giving her. That had always been soft and sweet, an admission in itself.

This kiss was clumsy and urgent—two people latching to each other as if terrified the other would let go. Feyre wound her fingers into his hair, pulling with a grip he likened to someone hanging from a precipice, where every digit, every ounce of surface area, could be the difference between life or death.

"Feyre," he groaned, trying to pull away. She chased him, mouth crashing back to his, swallowing his protests, and he was simulatenously in heaven and hell. "Feyre," he said again, pushing lightly at her shoulders.

Slowly, reluctantly, she pulled away. He could feel her body trembling.

"Don't push me away, Rhys." Her voice was so small. "Please, don't push me away. Not again."

She might as well have reached into his chest and ripped his heart straight out.

"I'm not going anywhere," he said, securing an arm around her back to keep her pressed where she was, her fluttering heart beating against his. "I'll sleep here. Just—let's wait until the morning, okay? I promise to kiss you stupid once you're sober."

Feyre tugged at her scarf as she thought about it. He knew she made her decision when she sighed softly and slumped into his body, resting her head against his chest.

"Rain check?" She asked, with a small yawn.

Rhys had never been happier to say those two stupid words. "Rain check."

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