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THIS IS TOO CUTE

A Letter Never Sent - Feysand Month

Summary: Rhysand was assigned as Feyre's secret santa—again. But after nearly confessing his feelings to her last Christmas, he'll be making sure not to put his heart on his sleeve this year.

Day 4: Dates. A bit of a loose interpretation but I had fun with it!

Read on AO3・Feysand Month Masterlist

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“Rhysaaaaand.” Mor’s voice carried over from down the hallway, followed by the sound of fast approaching feet. Then the doorway was flooded with the sight of his cousin, wearing a machiavellian smile. She held up an envelope between two fingers. “Look what I found!”

She would undoubtedly tell him anyway, so Rhysand carried on with the letter he’d been writing to Feyre. He was her secret santa—again. He was certain the blonde stalking up to the seat beside his own had something to do with that, out of some penchant for inflicting misery.

Mor liked to say that he was dramatic, but she was the one holding up a letter he now recognized. How could he not, when he was the one who had written it, and had buried it in a box beneath his bed in an effort to never think of it again? He should have burned it.

“My dearest, Feyre darling,” she read, proving that she was truly the sadist between the two of them.

Rhysand set his pen down. “Mor—”

“Merry Christmas from your secret santa,” she continued. Rhysand could feel his face getting warmer, and he glanced around the table for anything, anything, that could help him evade this embarrassment. “As I’m sure you know, this is the fifth Christmas that you and I have celebrated together.”

“Mor, please.”

“And I have loved you for every single one.”

He dropped his head into his hands, feigning that it was being done in exasperation when truly he was trying to mask the sutures being torn loose in his chest. Just like that, the wound felt fresh again.

“You didn’t tell me you were going to give this to Feyre,” Mor said, with the faintest note of accusation.

Gathering what was left of his crumbling pride, Rhysand pulled his head back up. He plucked the note from Mor’s hands, terrified of the power she held over him by even knowing about it. “I wrote it at the last minute.”

“Well, why didn’t you give it to her?”

Rhys leveled his cousin with a flat look. “Are we forgetting what happened at our party last year?”

Her blonde brows scrunched together in bemusement. Of course she wouldn’t remember. To Mor, Feyre’s announcement that she was getting back together with Tamlin was disappointing but otherwise unsurprising.

To Rhys, it was earth shattering.

So he gave Feyre the stupidly expensive necklace he spent days picking out and omitted the card entirely. And while everyone balked over the blatant disregard towards their price limit, he watched Feyre stare at that sapphire necklace—the one he’d so idiotically matched to his mother’s wedding ring like he thought she might one day own that, too. And he knew, from the sadness in her eyes, that Feyre would never wear his necklace. Tamlin would never let her wear it.

This year he got her socks. Simple, dispassionate, fluffy socks. And the note he’d just finished writing that says, very plainly: Merry Christmas Feyre Darling.

Rhys dropped the old letter onto the table like the heart he’d poured into the ink now burned him. The date stared back at him, taunting. December 24th. He couldn’t believe it had been an entire year.

Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Mor watching him. Chewing on her lip in a habit that he recognized as guilt, which made him wonder just how much of his anguish was showing. He thought he’d gotten better at masking it.

She bounced from her seat. “Let’s go into town.”

Rhys knew what she was doing. He let her pull him out of the chair anyway. It was better than letting his despair eat him away for the next four hours, until the party where he would need to look into those blue-gray eyes again and pretend it didn’t break his heart.

Going into town sounded nice, actually.

They attended a small christmas market and he tried to unbury himself from his dread in the brightly lit stalls and the bottomless mugs of hot chocolate. Mor was smiling so brightly, and he very nearly caught the infectious joy.

Until his phone rang, and he saw Azriel’s name flash across his screen.

“Hello?”

“Hey, I’m picking up presents for secret santa,” he said. All at once, Rhys was sobered by the knowledge that he would be seeing Feyre in under an hour. “I’m at the house, is yours ready to go?”

Their friendship group enjoyed the ceremony of dressing Cassian up as Santa to disperse the gifts. Somehow even that couldn’t lighten his spirit.

Rhysand moved the phone away from his face so he could take a deep, steadying breath. “Yeah,” he said, with far more ease than he felt. “My present and note are on the table. All it needs is an envelope.”

“Got it,” Az said. “See you soon.”

And indeed, all too soon they were gathered in the townhouse he shared with his brothers. Rhysand was clutching his whiskey glass like a lifeline, taking a sip to supplement his urge to sneak glances at Feyre.

She was stunning tonight. She always was. Hair pinned up elegantly, which meant she’d been painting before coming here. If that didn’t give it away, then the small fleck of paint he’d spotted on the arch of her cheekbone was sufficient. He’d noticed it when she’d given him a hug in greeting. The rest of her was immaculate. She was dressed in a slim navy gown with a slit up the thigh. And the sight of all that soft skin, paired with the smell of her perfume and the necklace he had given her glinting atop her delicate collarbone, had all made him feel like he needed to sit down to recover.

And so he’d been stuck on that damn couch, glaring at the rim of his glass. Wondering what was wrong with him that he couldn’t shake this infatuation with someone who so clearly had never and would never return his sentiments.

“Another drink, brother?”

Rhysand met Azriel’s expectant stare and handed over the crystal glass without remorse. “Make it a double.”

Azriel’s lips were pressed into a thin line, but he said nothing else as he disappeared into the kitchen. A moment later the couch dipped with the weight of another body. Rhys didn’t need to turn his head to see who had sat beside him—he could smell her perfume.

“Rhys, it’s been too long,” Feyre said pleasantly, if not with a trace of melancholy that had him turning to look at her. “We need to catch up!”

“I hear you’ve been busy,” he said lightly. He had been making a conscious effort to avoid social media these last months. He could stomach only so many pictures of Feyre and Tamlin hanging over each other, so most of his information had been drip fed to him by Mor. Whenever she could force it on him, that was. He swallowed, wishing it was around another mouthful of whiskey. “How was Paris?”

He hadn’t wanted to ask. He so desperately hadn’t wanted to ask. A trip to Paris almost certainly meant that Tamlin had proposed. Feyre wasn’t wearing a ring on her hand—his eyes had betrayed him, and it was the first thing he had looked at when she came through the door. But perhaps, just like last year, she was saving that announcement as a surprise.

Feyre smiled. He could tell it was forced, but couldn’t decide what she was concealing. “Paris was really nice. How have you been?”

“Great,” he lied. “I have been—really great.”

“That’s great,” she said, with a tension that rubbed against him like stroking a cat in the opposite direction of their fur.

He wished Azriel would come back with his drink.

The door burst open, saving him and Feyre both the trouble of reconciling their once easy friendship. Cassian appeared, bellowing, “Ho, ho, ho.”

The sight of his brother in a fat suit was enough to make Rhys laugh. Azriel pressed a glass back into his hand, and Rhysand thought that maybe, just maybe, he could survive the rest of the evening with Feyre sat next to him.

Cassian plonked onto a large armchair, disposing the novelty sack of presents at his feet. “Now, let’s see who’s been naughty and who’s been nice this year,” Cassian said as he pilfered through the bag. He pulled out the present that Rhysand had wrapped earlier—because of course Feyre would be first.

“Feyre Archeron,” Cassian called, waggling his brows. “Come sit on Santa’s lap and open up your present.”

With a wide, red lipped smile that elicited the strangest clash of emotions in Rhysand, Feyre sauntered over to Santa and rested herself delicately on top of Cassian’s knee. Rhys tried not to be jealous. Cassian made all of them sit in his lap.

“Have you been a good girl this year, Feyre?” Cassian teased.

“That depends on who you asked,” was her crooned response that had Rhysand’s fingers tightening around his whiskey. He took a sip, desperate to drown that intrigue stirring low in his gut.

“Well, your secret santa seems to think so.” Cassian handed Feyre the present, an envelope now carefully attached thanks to Azriel.

If it wouldn’t be obvious, Rhysand would have looked away or found a reason to excuse himself. Instead he watched Feyre carefully run her fingers beneath the envelope's seal, praying she wouldn’t be disappointed that he’d put considerably less effort into her present this year.

Why would she care? Effort was Tamlin’s job, and he’d already taken her to Paris.

Still he watched her unfold the note inside. Watched her eyes glide over the page. It was all of four words, but they lingered, flicking over the contents over and over. Was she wondering if there was more, was she searching for meaning? There was none.

Yet, Feyre seemed to stiffen. He watched her eyes widen, and she slowly raised her head to stare at him. He stared back, confused. Dismayed. Had he hurt her feelings, not saying more? He could see those were tears she was holding back, but he wasn’t certain what he should have done differently. It was an improvement from last year, where he hadn’t even gotten her a card.

With shaky fingers, Feyre placed the note aside and began unwrapping the gift itself. He watched her eyes dim as she unveiled its contents, and then she forced another smile. “Socks,” she breathed. His heart constricted as she turned and met his eyes. “They’re so soft, thank you Rhys.”

He nodded, not trusting his voice.

“Morrigan,” Cassian crooned, clearly oblivious to whatever had just passed between them. “You’re up next.”

Rhysand watched, stone faced, as Feyre returned to her spot beside him on the couch. He tuned out what was happening on the armchair in favor of listening to Feyre’s shaky breathing.

“Rhys?” She whispered, after a time.

He didn’t dare look at her. “Yes, darling?”

“This is our sixth Christmas together.”

His head snapped towards her of its own volition. “What?”

“Your note.” This close, he could see the way her beautiful eyes were glistening, and it shattered his heart completely. “You said this was the fifth Christmas we’ve celebrated together.”

“Rhysand,” Cassian called. “Come sit on Santa’s lap, you naughty boy.”

Now the attention of the room was on him. On them.

He downed his whiskey.

Feyre’s gaze stained his back as he stood up and approached Cassian. As he sat on his brother’s lap, his eyes searched through all that discarded paper until he spied the note he had written to Feyre. Not this morning, but a year ago.

December 24, it dated at the top. He hadn’t bothered to leave a date on the soulless note he’d intended to give her. But somehow, for a love note, the date had felt fitting. A way to remember something momentous.

Now, a way to condemn him. A way to ensure Feyre would never speak to him again.

“Here’s what santa got you this year,” Cassian said, handing him a gift bag and an accompanying card.

Rhysand opened the card first.

To: Rhysand

Merry Christmas! I hope this helps keep you warm!

Yours truly,

Feyre darling

Of course they’d had each other. His meddlesome cousin wouldn’t have it any other way.

P.S. Let me know if you need help. Keeping warm, that is.

Rhys blinked, then read the line over again. He glanced towards Feyre, but she was looking away, her teeth sunk into her lower lip. Hope bloomed in his chest as he stared at her. For the first time in a year, Rhys let himself wonder what it would feel like to have that bottom lip between his own teeth.

Inside the gift back was a long, cream colored scarf. He smiled, wrapping it around his neck as he said, “Looks like we had the same idea, Feyre. Striving to keep each other warm.”

This time, Feyre turned her head, and he could see more than just the tears in her eyes. He could see the flush on her cheeks, the elation in her smile.

“Pardon me, Santa.” He slid off of Cassian’s lap, leaving his brother with an affectionate pat on the shoulder. “I’m just going to grab a breath of fresh air.”

The winter air was a cool reprieve against his flushed cheeks. Rhys shut his eyes as he stepped into its embrace and leaned against the frigid metal railing. He reveled in its sting. Maybe if he could lower his temperature, his mind would freeze, too.

“Is the scarf keeping you warm?”

There she was, stepping out onto the patio. The moonlight washed over Feyre like an adoring lover, and Rhys was again floored by the sight of her.

He plastered a lazy smile and held out the end of his scarf invitingly. “Would you like to find out for yourself? It’s long enough for the both of us.”

The smile she flashed him could have brought Rhys to his knees. Thankfully they were frozen still as he watched her approach, accepting the end of that scarf. In a fluid motion, she unwound it from his neck until she held both ends.

When she tugged, he was little more than a slave to her will. Falling into the pull until Feyre was pressed against his chest. Once she was touching him, he could feel the way she shivered. And perhaps he could restrain himself from his own desire, but the thought of letting her grow cold? She was standing outside in nothing but her dress—she was certainly freezing. He was moving before he could help it, wrapping the scarf around both their necks. Once he was finished, he pulled his coat open and pulled her close so she was enveloped in his body heat. He could feel her cold arms slide around his back, banding tightly beneath the fabric of his coat. The hands that found her back were there to keep her warm, he told himself. But they were pressed so close together that he could feel every excruciatingly lovely inch of her body.

“Better?” He asked tightly.

Feyre laid her head against her chest and breathed a sigh of relief. “Much.”

“Is this what you meant?” He couldn’t help himself from asking. Feyre glanced up, eyes wide and painfully curious. “When you said you would help me keep warm.”

“More or less,” she hummed. “And considering you’ve been in love with me for the last five Christmases, keeping you warm is the least I can do.”

“Six,” he admitted hopelessly. The freezing air fogged his confession into a small cloud, and he watched it lift away like the weight from his chest. “I’ve been in love with you for six Christmases. I wrote that letter last year. You weren’t…” he sighed. “You weren’t supposed to see it.”

“I had no idea,” she whispered. Then, quietly, “For me, it’s been four.”

Rhysand wasn’t convinced this was real. Maybe he’d had too much whiskey and fallen over and this was all a cruel, intoxicated dream.

“What about Tamlin?”

“He asked me to marry him.” Rhys was staring at her, waiting for the other shoe to drop. Feyre shook her head, blinking back tears once again. “And I told him no.”

“Why?” He croaked. “Mor told me that you two seemed happier.”

Feyre shrugged. “I didn’t know you felt the same way, or I wouldn’t have gotten back together with him. I was trying to move on from my silly crush. But when he asked me to marry him, I knew… I knew I couldn’t say yes.”

He leaned his head down, until his forehead met hers and those beautiful eyes were even bigger. “You love me?”

“Four Christmases ago, we were making cookies together in the kitchen. I put the hand mixer in too soon and the flour went everywhere.” He remembered. Her bright eyes had stood out so brightly. Rhysand had marveled at how anyone could look so beautiful doing something so foolish. “It was smeared all over your face and you just laughed. Maybe I’d been falling in love with you for a while, but I knew then.”

She was staring at him expectantly. Waiting for his story of when he knew he’d fallen in love with her, but Rhysand knew he’d never be able to pin a singular moment. There was only the time he’d first laid eyes on her and every moment after. She’d never once released her grip on him. All he could say was that the descent was rapid and inevitable and, for the majority of the time, painful.

“You’re not with Tamlin anymore?”

“No.”

Relief coursed through him, finally cutting loose that last bit of weight in his heart. He smiled, bold and unrestrained. “Good.”

It meant there was nothing to stop him from tilting her chin and kissing her. It was gentle—soft. The kiss he’d wanted to give her on every Christmas since knowing her. Her mouth parted like the softest sigh, opening to him as her arms urged him closer.

He pressed his hand into her soft skin, musing that these touches were all hidden love letters, in their own way. Words he’d been wanting to write to her for years, with his fingers as ink and her skin as the paper. He kissed her again, letting his lips be the pen.

Merry Christmas and I love you and please don’t stop kissing me.

She couldn’t read them, but from the way that she moaned so quietly against him, he thought she could understand the sentiment.

And he decided that the next letter he wrote her would be with his tongue.

If you can, please reblog this with your favorite feysand fics!! I need some delicious new ones to cuddle up with 😚

Since my last post about fics saved my life….

Does anyone have any Rowaelin and/or Feysand fics where they get into fights and then make up? It could be AU or canon verse!

I loooove those fics because I am a SUCKER for angst 😙😙

Thank you wonderful users!! Everyone helped me so much last time!! ❤️❤️