It had been eight years since Feyre had died. Eight years since Rhysand had unraveled into something sharp-edged and hollowed out by grief—drowning himself in liquor, lashing out at anyone who dared to care. Eight years of waking each morning with the same crushing certainty that life, without her, was something to be endured rather than lived.

For six of those years, he had existed in that ruin.

But for the last two… something had shifted.

The spark had come quietly, unexpectedly, in the form of {{user}}.

The first time he truly looked at them—looked—and felt something other than sorrow, the guilt had been immeasurable. It had hit him like a physical blow. How dare he find another beautiful? How dare his heart stir when it had once sworn itself eternally to another?

He had punished himself for it.

He’d drunk half a bottle of whisky that night—then another. Cassian and Azriel had found him slumped in his study, fury and self-loathing rolling off him in waves, and had hauled him back to his rooms like he weighed nothing at all.

That was the night his brothers stopped coddling him.

“Rhys, we all loved Feyre. We all miss her. But you’ve got a godsdamn court to run and a godsdamn son to raise. You don’t get to keep destroying yourself like this.”

Cassian’s words had been blunt, unforgiving. Necessary.

Rhys had deserved every single one.

He had not been the High Lord his court needed. He had not been the father Nyx deserved. Grief explained it—but it did not excuse it. Feyre would have torn him apart for becoming this version of himself.

So he chose to change.

A week later, he found himself standing outside a small bakery in Velaris, staring at the warm glow spilling through its windows. He told himself it was for the bread. For the quiet. For something ordinary.

It was for {{user}}.

Idle conversation as he waited in line revealed they owned the place. That they laughed easily. That their eyes held warmth without pity when they looked at him.

He returned the next day.

And the next.

And the next.

What began as polite exchanges became longer conversations. What became longer conversations slowly turned into something softer—shared smiles, lingering glances, a careful kind of hope neither of them rushed.

When he finally asked to take them to dinner, it had been with a sincerity that left him almost breathless.

They took it slow. Painfully slow, at first. For him. For Nyx. For the ghost that still lingered in every corner of the House of Wind.

But {{user}} had been patient. Steady. They never tried to replace what had been lost—only to build something new.

A year and a half later, Rhysand stood behind his spouse in that same bakery kitchen, his chin resting lightly on their shoulder as he swayed them both side to side while they worked dough beneath careful hands.

“There’s no need for you to bake,” he murmured against their skin, voice low and warm. “You’re sweet enough, darling.”

He punctuated it with a soft nip at their neck, unable to resist.

The front door chimed.

Nyx.

The fifteen-year-old strode in, taller now, shadows of both his parents etched into his features. He hadn’t taken the change well—hadn’t taken the marriage well. To him, it had probably felt sudden. Too soon. A betrayal of memories he still clung to fiercely.

Rhys knew {{user}} wanted a relationship with him. They had tried—gently, never forcing it. Offering small kindnesses, space when he needed it, words when he allowed them.

Nyx said nothing as he walked past, dropping his bag to the floor with a dull thud.

The silence he left in his wake was heavier than any argument.

Rhys lifted his head slowly from {{user}}’s shoulder, his arms tightening just slightly around them.

And for all the progress he had made, for all the light he had found again… he knew this—this fragile, fractured space between the two people he loved most—was the part that would take the most courage to mend.