Walking through the streets of the city that has been her home for the past three years feels like freedom. The stars are bright for once - though not as bright as they are back in her countryside home - and the sounds of police sirens and speeding cars is faint against the sound of her beating heart. Feyre doesn't pay any attention to the slight drizzle, or the way it tickles her rouged cheeks. She only notices the surge of giddiness in her stomach.
Receiving a first in Fine Art will have that effect on someone.
It doesn't matter that the student loans will feel like a constant weight for quite some time, or that she's stepping into one of the most competitive occupations out there - and one of the worst paid too - she's just happy that she's finally free to do what she likes.
The wine she's had also helps.
Then she looks down at her watch, and the fact that it is very em very /em late causes the giddy feeling in her stomach to disappear.
"Amren." She starts, adjusting the dark graduation cap on her head while she looks up from her watch. "We need to go. It's getting late."
If Feyre had been paying any sort of attention to Amren, she would have realised that Amren is far too busy with what's-his-name to even consider how late it is. Feyre watches with mild disgust as Amren literally yanks the poor man down to her tiptoe height and presses her mouth firmly against his. Feyre can't even remember being introduced to Amren's new flame, even if she's seen him on campus a few times. Amren isn't usually this open with her affections. Clearly, the alcohol has gotten to her too.
"Amren, now-"
"She's having fun. Leave her be."
Feyre freezes at the sound of the deep, melodious voice. A voice she'd heard several times over the quiet din of the coffee shop she worked in, a voice that she'll never admit sends a tingle down her spine - because it'd only inflate his ego and further inflation is not something it needs.
Her eyes slip to look at the man beside her, and her head soon follows. Rhysand. A business student with a penchant for flirtation and an arrogant demeanour that attracts girls - and boys - like bees to honey... including herself. It's just she chooses to admire from afar, not up close while running her fingers across his well-toned bicep. He's the sort of honey that's only sold in those organic farm shops, expensive and golden and exquisite. If someone asked her to pinpoint the one specific feature that really does the work for him, Feyre couldn't manage it. It's his dark locks, that seem to absorb light and fall across his tanned skin like ink. It's his self-proclaimed violet eyes - eyes that she's never had the benefit of seeing up close, but even with two metres of space between them she can tell he's right. It's the cheekbones that are sharp enough to cut, the strong jaw that reminds her of a superhero, the cocky smirk that makes her both want to kiss and slap him at the same time.
The smirk that is directed her way right at this moment because she's been staring at him for too long, too busy comparing him to honey of all things.
She doesn't care that Amren wants to shove her tongue down someone else's throat, Feyre just wants to get home in one piece. As much as she loves the city, walking home on your own is definitely a sure fire way of being mugged or assaulted or raped, and any criminal with sense would know straight off the bat that she couldn't run away in the heels she's currently wearing.
"If it's walking home that you're worried about, I'll accompany you to your flat."
If there's one thing she knows about Rhysand it's that every word and syllable is calculated, and if the bite of his lip and his suggestive tone is anything to go by, then em accompany you to your flat /em definitely means what she thinks it does.
And all Feyre can do is swallow the lump in her throat, ignore the shiver rushing down her spine, and mutterem fuck /em in her head over and over again.
Because that's what she is: well and truly em fucked. /em
Why is he even looking at her like that? As far as she's concerned, the rain has turned her once-straight hair into a wavy, frizzy mess that sticks haphazardly out from underneath her graduation cap, and her mascara is smudged and her eyeliner has probably gone by now considering she couldn't afford the lovely long wear stuff that Amren constantly praises about - and she's a little too prideful to ask to borrow it.
She can practically hear Elain telling her to stop putting herself down - Elain, who has more radiance in her pinky finger than the sun has in its entire gas filled body.
Feyre looks back at Amren, who is now pressed up against a damp statue of some saint or another.
"Blasphemous, isn't it?"
Is he standing closer? Feyre tucks her hair behind her ear before crossing her arms, suddenly studying the statue with much interest.
"All the more reason for her to stop, then." She retorts after a moment of quiet.
A laugh flutters across her exposed ear. It takes all of her strength to suppress the shiver he's caused, and even more to resist the urge to lean back into him. After one more look at Amren, who only seems to be getting more and more enthusiastic, Feyre releases a sigh and takes a step away from Rhysand - when all she really wants to do is close the little distance between them.
"Fine, you can walk me home. It isn't far, only about ten, fifteen minutes I guess." Feyre finally relents, biting at her bottom lip as she gages Rhysand's reaction. There's a smug grin blooming on his face, and for a moment Feyre is glad that her cheeks are already rouged - he doesn't need to know that the grin alone sends heat across her neck and face. Before he can say a word, Feyre is already walking.
It doesn't take him long to catch up - seconds with his stupidly, attractively long legs that look ridiculously good in his dark, fitted trousers - and they fall into a comfortable silence. A comfortable silence that is punctuated by small whispers of his fingers against hers, fractured by the way he offers to carry her shoes for her when she takes them off, completely broken in two by the hand on her back when she stumbles. He's funny too, she realises. Every snarky comment and smart retort are designed to charm her - and it's working.
It's two O'clock in the morning, stars still shining and neighbours still sleeping, when Feyre slips the key into the lock of her apartment door and prepares herself to say goodbye to Rhysand - em no, Rhys. He told you to call him Rhys. /em When she looks back, Rhys is leaning against the opposite wall, her shoes dangling from his fingers, tie loose around his neck, and his other hand running across the smooth expanse of his jaw. Feyre wants to capture this moment: a secret agent about to seduce the woman he's just met.
And she tries, she really does try not to look at him for too long, but the moment his eyes meet hers, deep and twinkling and captivating, Feyre grabs him by the sleeve of his expensive suit and drags him into the flat behind her.
Everything is almost a blur after that.
Her heels clack against the floor as Rhys drops them, one hand tangling in her hair - pushing the cap off in the process - and the other grasping at her waist to pull her closer. Her bedroom door swings open as he moves to press her against it, and her laugh spills into his mouth as he curses, as she tries to apologise for the door that doesn't close properly. Then he laughs against her lips in return when she stumbles over some shoe, and Feyre doesn't think she's ever tasted something as delicious. She wants to breathe his laugh in, play it on loop over and over again until she becomes sick of it.
"Rhys, em Rhys/em - the curtains." Feyre attempts to pull away so that she can draw the curtains closed, but finds herself pulled back into Rhys' embrace, her back against his chest and his lips on her neck. She laughs anyway, the alcohol and the touch of his embrace sending her giddy. On her second attempt - which is almost foiled by the scrape of Rhys' teeth across her skin - Feyre manages to pull away and closes the curtains, leaving the pair of them in almost complete darkness, save for the slight shine of the moonlight slipping between the gaps of the curtains. They hadn't even bothered to turn on the light when they'd entered her flat.
There's a small bang when Rhys manages to stub his toes on the metal leg of her bed, followed by a smooth series of profanities slipping from his lips. Clearly, someone isn't used to blackout curtains.
Feyre manages to make her way to Rhys safely, her eyes now having adjusted to the darkness, and begins to press kisses to his tanned neck while her fingers work at the buttons of his shirt. His suit jacket is gone, and she doesn't even remember when he took it off. All she can concentrate on is the promise of his bare skin underneath the shirt, and the way a small, sharp intake of breath rushes into his lungs when her fingers touch his abdomen for the first time.
She's distracted, to say the least, when she finally undoes the last button. Her fingers run across the hard planes of his stomach, his waist, his chest, mapping a path that she wishes she could see in complete daylight. Feyre looks up at Rhys, noting the tightness of his jaw, and can't help the grin that stretches her cheeks.
"Speechless?" The one, simple word seems incredibly loud in the silence of the room, and Feyre swears she can feel his heart pulsing against her fingertips. She can also feel the way his laugh seems to vibrate in his chest. It's a deep rumble, and Feyre almost presses her ear to his skin to hear it more clearly.
"Your hands are freezing, Feyre, darling." His fingers trail fire across her back as he pulls down the zip of her dress. As cool air meets her bare skin, it suddenly hits Feyre how real this is. She hasn't felt this way in a long time. One night stands aren't meant to feel this way, like she could find solace in his arms and burn and burn without end under his touch. And by the way he hungrily kisses her, like a man who will never be sated, Rhys feels exactly the same way.
As they make their way towards the bed, Feyre isn't sure if it's more of her pulling or him pushing. The lines between them are beginning to blur, and Feyre knows with some sort of deep yearning that she doesn't really ever want the lines to be defined and separate ever again. Then she reminds herself that this is a one night stand. They're not dating, they haven't promised each other a second time. They're celebrating, and that's it. But it's not just that, it can't be when Rhys is murmuring sweet nothings in her ear that make her feel like she could just melt there and then. It can't be when he trembles under her touch, when he sighs with relief when his belt finally comes undone.
She's pushing down his trousers when she has to press a hand to her mouth to stifle a yawn. The embarrassment hits her when Rhys freezes, fingers only just touching the clasp of her bra.
"You're tired." It's not even a question. Feyre feels her cheeks burn. She hadn't realised how much the day had tired her out.
"Yes, bloody exhausted." But he makes her feel alive. She laughs, pressing a lingering, open mouthed kiss to his collar bone. Her fingers move to the waistband of his underwear, but large hands close over hers before she can remove the final layer, take the final step. They pull her hands away from his skin, and Feyre almost pouts - actually em pouts /em- but is stopped when Rhys pulls her towards the bed.
Her nerves tingle, and butterflies flutter in her stomach - but then he simply climbs in, pulls her under the covers with him, and makes no move to touch her beyond placing an arm over her waist.
"Rhys-"
"You're tired."
"I know, but it's fine. I've been tired before in situations like this and I managed."
"But how much did you enjoy it?"
Feyre falls silent at that, because he's right. As much as she would have loved to have been underneath Rhys at this moment in time, I wouldn't have anywhere near as good as if she was completely wide awake.
"I'm sorry."
"You shouldn't apologise. Anyone in their right mind is tired at 2am. And it's not as if you owe me anything."
There's silence again, before Feyre snorts.
"You're not tired."
Her head is nestled just under his chin, so she feels the way his jaw adjusts to allow him a grin, and marvels at the way his fingers tighten ever so slightly on her waist as a sign of affection.
"I'm used to late nights."
"Of course you are." Feyre snorts again, before pressing a soft kiss to the underside of Rhys' jaw and murmuring into his skin: "goodnight, Rhys."
"Sleep tight, Feyre."
Feyre wakes up the next morning realising that she hasn't slept so soundly in a very long time.